The Spirit of October
The spirit of October flaunting her leafy crown of color on fire
Even in the grim face of the cold grey smoke of cruel winter
Waiting hushed to suffocate a soul not steeled by autumn.
Friday, October 7, 2011
September Becomes A Ghost / new poems 2011
Roll The Rock Away
The bewildered years abandoned along the way,
Days littering the road less traveled, less taken,
The unbeaten path leading away from Golgotha,
A decade left behind and hung from a crossroad,
The hours counting their own untimely crucifixion.
The bewildered years abandoned along the way,
Days littering the road less traveled, less taken,
The unbeaten path leading away from Golgotha,
A decade left behind and hung from a crossroad,
The hours counting their own untimely crucifixion.
September Becomes A Ghost / new poems 2011
Give Up This Ghost You Carry (Invisible Burden)
Give up this ghost you carry
Upon the cross of broken shoulders
And arms outstretched in a perfect effigy
Of a pale spirit weighted by an invisible burden.
Give up this ghost you carry
Upon the cross of broken shoulders
And arms outstretched in a perfect effigy
Of a pale spirit weighted by an invisible burden.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
September Becomes A Ghost / new poems 2011
A Shudder Of Wings / A Stirring Of Stars
A plane passes beneath the belt of Orion,
Spirits sway upon the wake of its contrail,
Birds fly from limbs in a shudder of wings
Like a memory for the wind to carry along
Around a world half lit by a stirring of stars.
A plane passes beneath the belt of Orion,
Spirits sway upon the wake of its contrail,
Birds fly from limbs in a shudder of wings
Like a memory for the wind to carry along
Around a world half lit by a stirring of stars.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
September Becomes A Ghost / new poems 2011
Beyond The Beyond
Something
As imperceptible as air
Pulling us
Toward the sun.
The moon
Up above the wind,
Bigger than it's ever been
As we reach for the stars.
Something
As imperceptible as air
Pulling us
Toward the sun.
The moon
Up above the wind,
Bigger than it's ever been
As we reach for the stars.
September Becomes A Ghost / new poems 2011
Horoscope (Cut And Paste)
Today,
stay in bed.
Don't mix
business with pleasure.
Sleep
with a Leo.
Tomorrow,
start a fire.
Today,
stay in bed.
Don't mix
business with pleasure.
Sleep
with a Leo.
Tomorrow,
start a fire.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
September Becomes A Ghost / new poems 2011
A Rail Of Birds
Crawled across a life, (a) wake),
A continental divide
Between want, need, and the death of desire
Marking moments on a map
I made with only typewriter ribbon
And the mutter of mad mumbling
Before dreams take hold,
Westing beyond the sleep I fetishize,
Beyond the heresy of geology,
To follow the geography
Hidden beyond a painted landscape's frame,
Coming to rest, content
Alone beneath a rail of birds,
Periods upon a copy paper sky,
That, like me at last,
Will never be the same again,
Even as I linger here between
Sleep, dreams and final destination.
Crawled across a life, (a) wake),
A continental divide
Between want, need, and the death of desire
Marking moments on a map
I made with only typewriter ribbon
And the mutter of mad mumbling
Before dreams take hold,
Westing beyond the sleep I fetishize,
Beyond the heresy of geology,
To follow the geography
Hidden beyond a painted landscape's frame,
Coming to rest, content
Alone beneath a rail of birds,
Periods upon a copy paper sky,
That, like me at last,
Will never be the same again,
Even as I linger here between
Sleep, dreams and final destination.
September Becomes A Ghost / new poems 2011
September (Becomes A Ghost)
Fall's dull sun slipping away
Upon a dead leaf strewn wind
Can no longer hold my shadow
As September becomes a ghost
Rattling windows before the rain.
Fall's dull sun slipping away
Upon a dead leaf strewn wind
Can no longer hold my shadow
As September becomes a ghost
Rattling windows before the rain.
Monday, October 3, 2011
September Becomes A Ghost / new poems 2011
Paper To Dust
Paper to dust, all of our pale books,
Dying suns burning in our mortal hands,
Falling stars raining down upon our clay feet,
Rising moon bright beyond our ashen shoulders
Illuminating until the end all our ephemeral stories.
Paper to dust, all of our pale books,
Dying suns burning in our mortal hands,
Falling stars raining down upon our clay feet,
Rising moon bright beyond our ashen shoulders
Illuminating until the end all our ephemeral stories.
September Becomes A Ghost / new poems 2011
Any Given Moment
Mirrors moving, capturing a mere impression of a given moment,
Only one amidst a myriad, among the shatter of reflections,
Our broken light's belief beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Mirrors moving, capturing a mere impression of a given moment,
Only one amidst a myriad, among the shatter of reflections,
Our broken light's belief beyond a shadow of a doubt.
September Becomes A Ghost / new poems 2011
The Crooked Path (Mortar Of Footprints)
The fallen leaves
Surrounding my years, miles,
mortar of footprints
Smolder from the spark
My flint heels left behind,
The smoke irritating
A thousand eyes
Of those who cannot see
Beyond the horizon
Of their own hesitant steps
Into the uncertain future,
Wanting instead to walk it back
To a time when
Limbs were still weighted
By the foliage of a decade's falls
Now scattering with the wind
To cover the crooked path
I have cut through a wilderness
Where memories only hinder progress.
The fallen leaves
Surrounding my years, miles,
mortar of footprints
Smolder from the spark
My flint heels left behind,
The smoke irritating
A thousand eyes
Of those who cannot see
Beyond the horizon
Of their own hesitant steps
Into the uncertain future,
Wanting instead to walk it back
To a time when
Limbs were still weighted
By the foliage of a decade's falls
Now scattering with the wind
To cover the crooked path
I have cut through a wilderness
Where memories only hinder progress.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
September Becomes A Ghost / new poems 2011
La Bella Vista
Take scissors,
Cut across the edges of a life
Discarding everything
That has gotten in the way
Of la bella vista.
Take scissors,
Cut across the edges of a life
Discarding everything
That has gotten in the way
Of la bella vista.
September Becomes A Ghost / new poems 2011
Coreografía Del Corazón
Theosophical thoughts
Course blue veins,
Red blood's hue
In search of
The reason,
A rhythm,
for life
itself.
Theosophical thoughts
Course blue veins,
Red blood's hue
In search of
The reason,
A rhythm,
for life
itself.
September Becomes A Ghost / new poems 2011
In These Mists
Our shadows cling to morning dew,
Kiss the dull light of coming days,
Leave us damp and lying supine
In pools of soft, painted foliage.
Our shadows cling to morning dew,
Kiss the dull light of coming days,
Leave us damp and lying supine
In pools of soft, painted foliage.
September Becomes A Ghost / new poems 2011
Makes A Flag Of
Look away,
I removed my skin,
In violation of vital organs,
My heart among them,
On display, splayed
For all to see, to hear
Within a listen
To the subtle, discordant pulse
Of all that still breathes
Between the folds of muscle and flesh,
The humanity of hidden language
Bleeding out between lines
Connecting lives,
The letting red of blue veins
Makes a flag of
What once was our collective surrender.
Look away,
I removed my skin,
In violation of vital organs,
My heart among them,
On display, splayed
For all to see, to hear
Within a listen
To the subtle, discordant pulse
Of all that still breathes
Between the folds of muscle and flesh,
The humanity of hidden language
Bleeding out between lines
Connecting lives,
The letting red of blue veins
Makes a flag of
What once was our collective surrender.
September Becomes A Ghost / new poems 2011
A Tango More Novel
Tell-tale, our stories told in time,
Dancing hours, waltzing years
Across trapdoor floors
Giving way to the weight of a lifetime,
Leaving our cards upon tables
Static despite their moveable feasts,
The hunger for hand in hand,
A tango more novel than time itself.
Tell-tale, our stories told in time,
Dancing hours, waltzing years
Across trapdoor floors
Giving way to the weight of a lifetime,
Leaving our cards upon tables
Static despite their moveable feasts,
The hunger for hand in hand,
A tango more novel than time itself.
September Becomes A Ghost / new poems 2011
Collapse Upon Black Keys
Breath, neck to neck,
A music for two pianos
Filling this valentine heart
With the pure of white ivories
The pink of surrendering sunsets,
The lipstick red of wine and roses,
The heart of the matter as memorable
As the air through a wide open window
The moment we collapse upon black keys.
Breath, neck to neck,
A music for two pianos
Filling this valentine heart
With the pure of white ivories
The pink of surrendering sunsets,
The lipstick red of wine and roses,
The heart of the matter as memorable
As the air through a wide open window
The moment we collapse upon black keys.
September Becomes A Ghost / new poems 2011
Thread Of Smoke
Sending letters to myself,
Reminders left to yellow
In a tin holding the fragrance
Of stale tobacco, matches
Waiting to be struck,
Their sulfur secreting
A decade's pungent correspondence,
Dear me
Patiently awaiting release
Into a world, a wind
That sighs beneath the weight
Of canceled postmarks
Delivering nostalgia, sentiment,
And a cache of regrets
On an unwinding thread of smoke.
Sending letters to myself,
Reminders left to yellow
In a tin holding the fragrance
Of stale tobacco, matches
Waiting to be struck,
Their sulfur secreting
A decade's pungent correspondence,
Dear me
Patiently awaiting release
Into a world, a wind
That sighs beneath the weight
Of canceled postmarks
Delivering nostalgia, sentiment,
And a cache of regrets
On an unwinding thread of smoke.
September Becomes A Ghost / new poems 2011
100 Summers / 1000 Winters
Restless, the grass beneath my feet
Holds stories perfumed by 100 summers,
Weathered by 1000 winters
Where its secrets wait
For spring's release to once again
Inform the slowly warming wind
Of its whispered litany
Lying green in blades of hushed grace.
Restless, the grass beneath my feet
Holds stories perfumed by 100 summers,
Weathered by 1000 winters
Where its secrets wait
For spring's release to once again
Inform the slowly warming wind
Of its whispered litany
Lying green in blades of hushed grace.
September Becomes A Ghost / new poems 2011
Memories Written Revealed
Spaces beside thoughts
Brimming with
a collective of moments,
Their unruly stack
At last, somehow
Sorted,
Memories written
Revealed
Spaces beside thoughts
Brimming with
a collective of moments,
Their unruly stack
At last, somehow
Sorted,
Memories written
Revealed
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Sunday, September 25, 2011
AUTHOR EVENT
I will be reading from my debut fiction collection, Carry Each His Burden, at the Patterson Library in Westfield, NY, Thursday, September 29th, 7pm. Click here for further information.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Sunday, September 18, 2011
AUTHOR EVENT
I will be reading from my debut fiction collection, Carry Each His Burden, at Talking Leaves Books in Buffalo, Wednesday, October 12th, 7pm, at the Main St. location. For further information go to Talking Leaves Books.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
A Document Of Days To Come / new poems 2011
Light At Last
Hanging from these power lines,
Current stretched across a decade,
Voltage pulsing through black palms,
Tongue tasting charred, electric ozone,
Light at last behind eyes ten years gone.
Hanging from these power lines,
Current stretched across a decade,
Voltage pulsing through black palms,
Tongue tasting charred, electric ozone,
Light at last behind eyes ten years gone.
A Document Of Days To Come / new poems 2011
The Year Beyond This Year
A little boy, ever so quietly with each new night,
Within the suspended animation of sleep, of dreams,
Changing with the leaves as summer gives up her ghost,
Another season stretching toward the year beyond this year,
And with it so too a little boy for the man he will become in time.
A little boy, ever so quietly with each new night,
Within the suspended animation of sleep, of dreams,
Changing with the leaves as summer gives up her ghost,
Another season stretching toward the year beyond this year,
And with it so too a little boy for the man he will become in time.
A Document Of Days To Come / new poems 2011
Her Black Sea
Your face is no longer your face under a dim, almost dead moon.
She cast her spell into the dying tides that swept you far away.
She, not Luna, not oceans, damned your soul to drift forever.
Your face is no longer your face mirrored in her black sea.
Your face is no longer your face under a dim, almost dead moon.
She cast her spell into the dying tides that swept you far away.
She, not Luna, not oceans, damned your soul to drift forever.
Your face is no longer your face mirrored in her black sea.
A Document Of Days To Come / new poems 2011
Train Dreams
No poem, only night's
constellation cinema,
thruway thrumming,
penciled branches,
shadow animals,
ghost weather,
sleeping birds,
train dreams,
yellow eyes,
wind voices,
black grass,
river songs,
smoke sky,
blue hours,
halo moon,
wired hum,
slow dawn.
No poem, only night's
constellation cinema,
thruway thrumming,
penciled branches,
shadow animals,
ghost weather,
sleeping birds,
train dreams,
yellow eyes,
wind voices,
black grass,
river songs,
smoke sky,
blue hours,
halo moon,
wired hum,
slow dawn.
Friday, September 9, 2011
A Document Of Days To Come / new poems 2011
Ginger (To Perfume This Night)
Holding our collective breath,
Almost there,
Coming into focus,
A change in the weather,
Delicate romance,
Curtains blowing
Upon our arrival,
As we linger
In the long light
Of a new architecture,
Our sunlit silhouette
Exhales its ginger
To perfume this night,
Our unbroken union,
The coming blue of dawn.
Holding our collective breath,
Almost there,
Coming into focus,
A change in the weather,
Delicate romance,
Curtains blowing
Upon our arrival,
As we linger
In the long light
Of a new architecture,
Our sunlit silhouette
Exhales its ginger
To perfume this night,
Our unbroken union,
The coming blue of dawn.
A Document Of Days To Come / new poems 2011
Ghosts, Come Gather (Sing Your Grey Songs)
Wind at my back
Haunting a past
I no longer hear
Now with her (my love)
In my life.
Dead spirits,
You hold no more sway
As I hurtle on across
This expanding plain
Pointed toward a new beginning
And inevitably on to the end.
Sighs. Whispers. Screams.
What I cannot hear is that which
invites reverie, contemplation.
Ghosts,
Come gather around this fire
I have built purely from will
And sing your grey songs.
Though I can no longer hear them,
I am always listening
To the silence, to her (my love),
To the stories my own blood carries
To the end.
Wind at my back
Haunting a past
I no longer hear
Now with her (my love)
In my life.
Dead spirits,
You hold no more sway
As I hurtle on across
This expanding plain
Pointed toward a new beginning
And inevitably on to the end.
Sighs. Whispers. Screams.
What I cannot hear is that which
invites reverie, contemplation.
Ghosts,
Come gather around this fire
I have built purely from will
And sing your grey songs.
Though I can no longer hear them,
I am always listening
To the silence, to her (my love),
To the stories my own blood carries
To the end.
A Document Of Days To Come / new poems 2011
The Broken Bell (for Chuck Anderson)
I can still hear the broken bell of Time we were keeping,
The sound of 10,000 days resounding in our ears
As the years crawled their opposite shores
In search of the rhythm of our youth,
A percussion of lost, loud hours
Still ringing a sound, a fury
In our cracked hearts.
I can still hear the broken bell of Time we were keeping,
The sound of 10,000 days resounding in our ears
As the years crawled their opposite shores
In search of the rhythm of our youth,
A percussion of lost, loud hours
Still ringing a sound, a fury
In our cracked hearts.
A Document Of Days To Come / new poems 2011
A Dance Of Days (for Wesley Baker)
A halo of music hovers above a fair head
You have filled with words of the last century's literature,
As you speak in thoughtful, soft syllables
Of where you have been while the world spins onward
Below shifting sky, beneath shifting feet
As they change longitude in search of new latitudes
In a dance of days we continue to sing.
A halo of music hovers above a fair head
You have filled with words of the last century's literature,
As you speak in thoughtful, soft syllables
Of where you have been while the world spins onward
Below shifting sky, beneath shifting feet
As they change longitude in search of new latitudes
In a dance of days we continue to sing.
A Document Of Days To Come / new poems 2011
Unseen To Us (for Doug Baker)
Wherever I have found my feet planted firmly
He knows the trees towering tall overhead;
The beautiful locusts of Erie shores,
The strong oaks of crossroads,
The pine of wooded coves,
All a wonder I ponder
As we add a ring
Unseen to us
And Time
Itself.
Wherever I have found my feet planted firmly
He knows the trees towering tall overhead;
The beautiful locusts of Erie shores,
The strong oaks of crossroads,
The pine of wooded coves,
All a wonder I ponder
As we add a ring
Unseen to us
And Time
Itself.
A Document Of Days To Come / new poems 2011
Oceans Eternal (for Mike Mortimer)
Capsize the worn and battered boat
Throw the broken soul to the salt
Swallow the open sea of belief
Embrace the oceans eternal
Capsize the worn and battered boat
Throw the broken soul to the salt
Swallow the open sea of belief
Embrace the oceans eternal
A Document Of Days To Come / new poems 2011
Equus Ferus Caballus
At odds with this terrain rolling out before me, behind me
As I whip the horse I ride beyond the setting sun
Into the black-kissed, blue-bruised night
In search of a pure healing peace
Where I can release at last
This beast of burdens,
Set free my mind
To run wild
this life.
At odds with this terrain rolling out before me, behind me
As I whip the horse I ride beyond the setting sun
Into the black-kissed, blue-bruised night
In search of a pure healing peace
Where I can release at last
This beast of burdens,
Set free my mind
To run wild
this life.
A Document Of Days To Come / new poems 2011
Of Dying Suns, Collapsing Stars
Pull back the night sky
And search its folds
For the unborn
Hidden within celestial blankets
That hold the heavenly warmth
Of dying suns, collapsing stars,
For the one
Whose name we speak
Only in prayers for now
Pull back the night sky
And search its folds
For the unborn
Hidden within celestial blankets
That hold the heavenly warmth
Of dying suns, collapsing stars,
For the one
Whose name we speak
Only in prayers for now
Thursday, September 8, 2011
A Document Of Days To Come / new poems 2011
Hiss
Nerves vibrate,
Shake the slightest sound
From inside this skin;
A sigh from a soul,
A hum from a heart,
The murmur of an electric prayer
Along a theremin spine,
Slipping between cartilage
And on into
Oxygen-rich blood,
Its hiss barely heard
Beneath the wince of a paper-cut.
Nerves vibrate,
Shake the slightest sound
From inside this skin;
A sigh from a soul,
A hum from a heart,
The murmur of an electric prayer
Along a theremin spine,
Slipping between cartilage
And on into
Oxygen-rich blood,
Its hiss barely heard
Beneath the wince of a paper-cut.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
A Document Of Days To Come / new poems 2011
Feather
She brings wind,
Breathes blue into its wings,
Cups my heart in her hands and hums
A bird, a breeze into all four of its waiting chambers
Where love must sometimes be reminded of its own flight of fancy.
She brings wind,
Breathes blue into its wings,
Cups my heart in her hands and hums
A bird, a breeze into all four of its waiting chambers
Where love must sometimes be reminded of its own flight of fancy.
A Document Of Days To Come / new poems 2011
Pure And Raw (Like This Smile Behind Gnashing Teeth)
I cannot keep my wolverine soul from wandering
All of the thorn-kissed, thicket-choked rushes,
Their dark, sharp shadow's cage unable
To hold at bay my own fierce heart,
It's howling scaring all of those
I hold most dear in a world
Where I stalk the wild
Of wilderness years
I remember well
Despite the distance
From their bloody lust
Of red-mad animal instinct
Still lurking below jagged scars'
Sun-healed wounds from predators
Conjured to life again from imagination,
Pure and raw, a prey to maul, like this smile
Behind gnashing teeth I savage before it's seen
I cannot keep my wolverine soul from wandering
All of the thorn-kissed, thicket-choked rushes,
Their dark, sharp shadow's cage unable
To hold at bay my own fierce heart,
It's howling scaring all of those
I hold most dear in a world
Where I stalk the wild
Of wilderness years
I remember well
Despite the distance
From their bloody lust
Of red-mad animal instinct
Still lurking below jagged scars'
Sun-healed wounds from predators
Conjured to life again from imagination,
Pure and raw, a prey to maul, like this smile
Behind gnashing teeth I savage before it's seen
A Document Of Days To Come / new poems 2011
We Are The Weight Of Our Own Water Bodies
Carry each his burden
For we are the weight of our own water bodies
Flooding soul intentions, our hands waving
To shores behind us, shores beyond us
As we swallow an unrelenting rain
Determined to drown our fight songs
Beneath the swollen river of Time.
Carry each his burden
For we are the weight of our own water bodies
Flooding soul intentions, our hands waving
To shores behind us, shores beyond us
As we swallow an unrelenting rain
Determined to drown our fight songs
Beneath the swollen river of Time.
A Document Of Days To Come / new poems 2011
Carry These Words / These Words Carry (With You)
Carry these words (with you).
Hold the smoke of them in your lungs.
Sling them over the breadth of broad shoulders.
Secret their meaning inside the shelter of a strong heart.
Hide their bright glow beneath the shadow of your own mute soul.
(With you) these words carry.
Carry these words (with you).
Hold the smoke of them in your lungs.
Sling them over the breadth of broad shoulders.
Secret their meaning inside the shelter of a strong heart.
Hide their bright glow beneath the shadow of your own mute soul.
(With you) these words carry.
A Document Of Days To Come / new poems 2011
A Document Of Days To Come
Looking back over broad shoulders
I scan a calendar of landscapes
For my wind-erased footprints,
Stand momentarily there
In a stun of years,
But also in
The building light
Of a new morning's dawn,
Ready at long last to walk on
With my wife and our small son,
A document of days to come beyond.
Looking back over broad shoulders
I scan a calendar of landscapes
For my wind-erased footprints,
Stand momentarily there
In a stun of years,
But also in
The building light
Of a new morning's dawn,
Ready at long last to walk on
With my wife and our small son,
A document of days to come beyond.
A Document Of Days To Come / new poems 2011
The Songs We Have Sung Alone (for Doug Baker)
I cannot collapse the years
We have spent throats stretched
Toward the night sky, a lone melody
Escaping with the blue exhalation of smoke,
Consulting stars in search of our sweet harmony.
I cannot collapse the years
We have spent throats stretched
Toward the night sky, a lone melody
Escaping with the blue exhalation of smoke,
Consulting stars in search of our sweet harmony.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
A Document Of Days To Come / new poems 2011
Wilted Roses
As summer surrenders her hot breath
I nod off in a cold room, await the fall.
Condensation hands and conversations fading
From memory buried beneath sand effigies.
Quiet slips from the pages of a bleached book
Landing upon a quilted bed of wilted roses.
As summer surrenders her hot breath
I nod off in a cold room, await the fall.
Condensation hands and conversations fading
From memory buried beneath sand effigies.
Quiet slips from the pages of a bleached book
Landing upon a quilted bed of wilted roses.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Friday, July 29, 2011
AUTHOR EVENT for CARRY EACH HIS BURDEN
I am absolutely thrilled to announce that I will be reading from my debut collection of stories, CARRY EACH HIS BURDEN, on Wednesday, October 12th, at 7pm at Buffalo's No.1 independent bookseller, Talking Leaves.
Low and Golden / new poems 2011
Broke My Neck
Broke my neck
Swinging with the monkeys,
Tree to tree,
Aping my own behavior, acting out,
Pulling stars from the sky,
Burning King James' bibles,
Kissing collapsed bridges,
Wading foul waters' low wash,
Clapping hands against the thunder
Spitting its rain and crooked light
To baptize by electroshock
This primate,
Not yet civilized by Man,
Nor by his man-made God.
Broke my neck
Swinging with the monkeys,
Tree to tree,
Aping my own behavior, acting out,
Pulling stars from the sky,
Burning King James' bibles,
Kissing collapsed bridges,
Wading foul waters' low wash,
Clapping hands against the thunder
Spitting its rain and crooked light
To baptize by electroshock
This primate,
Not yet civilized by Man,
Nor by his man-made God.
Low and Golden / new poems 2011
Jealous Stars
Please don't sleep the day,
Breathe deep the open fields
Where all your own wildflowers
Wait for the sun to climb the sky
Hiding at last all those jealous stars
Pining for your attention as you dream.
Please don't sleep the day,
Breathe deep the open fields
Where all your own wildflowers
Wait for the sun to climb the sky
Hiding at last all those jealous stars
Pining for your attention as you dream.
Low and Golden / new poems 2011
I, a Killer
My own ghosts, versions of me I murdered
With my own hands, move outside this window,
Their brittle laughter breaking a cold, quiet night,
Waking birds who fly blindly on toward blinking stars
And a heaven my dead souls can only dream to dance
While I, a killer, still walk and stalk this mortal world alive.
My own ghosts, versions of me I murdered
With my own hands, move outside this window,
Their brittle laughter breaking a cold, quiet night,
Waking birds who fly blindly on toward blinking stars
And a heaven my dead souls can only dream to dance
While I, a killer, still walk and stalk this mortal world alive.
Low and Golden / new poems 2011
Porcupine Gods
Heaven bristles, dead hair electric even in death,
As our prayers are dumped into all four oceans
By every smiling saint and laughing Buddha
From bluer skies beyond wobbling stars'
Dull reminder of our own mortality.
Heaven bristles, dead hair electric even in death,
As our prayers are dumped into all four oceans
By every smiling saint and laughing Buddha
From bluer skies beyond wobbling stars'
Dull reminder of our own mortality.
Low and Golden / new poems 2011
These Dark Things (Our Blue Days)
These dark things,
Below our steep bank,
Rolling in with the weather,
Hanging from locust limbs outside,
Under foundations, walking attic floors,
Are only night's own dreams of our blue days
Turned black in the quiet and cold of starless nights.
These dark things,
Below our steep bank,
Rolling in with the weather,
Hanging from locust limbs outside,
Under foundations, walking attic floors,
Are only night's own dreams of our blue days
Turned black in the quiet and cold of starless nights.
Low and Golden / new poems 2011
All Our Colours
We bury our innocence in a box,
Widen our eyes and open up our minds
Only to discover all our colours bleeding into one.
Lost heroes aging along with us,
Their spider bites and scorpion stings
Marking you and I anew as we sleep side by side.
So hold mud flowers and remember,
The sound ideas and sights we've seen
Bloom wild again inside our scarred and dirty hearts.
We bury our innocence in a box,
Widen our eyes and open up our minds
Only to discover all our colours bleeding into one.
Lost heroes aging along with us,
Their spider bites and scorpion stings
Marking you and I anew as we sleep side by side.
So hold mud flowers and remember,
The sound ideas and sights we've seen
Bloom wild again inside our scarred and dirty hearts.
Low and Golden / new poems 2011
Off to the Side (for Jim Harrison, poet)
I stand where you have always stood;
There where the light flushes new color into primrose.
At the edge where black clouds hover not overhead but within.
Beyond myself but with both feet planted firmly and walking forward.
Holding Protestant ethic in a hand while furiously working with the other.
Immersed in the quiescence of the wild where thoughts are free to linger.
I stand where you have always stood;
Off to the side, unseen for weeks, months, even years.
In the charity and wisdom of a good woman's unconditional love.
Within my own skin, looking more comfortable with each new decade.
Outside myself to better understand how much I still don't know as yet.
Inside my own mind, a mirror reflecting the beautiful lie and the ugly truth.
I stand where you have always stood;
There where the light flushes new color into primrose.
At the edge where black clouds hover not overhead but within.
Beyond myself but with both feet planted firmly and walking forward.
Holding Protestant ethic in a hand while furiously working with the other.
Immersed in the quiescence of the wild where thoughts are free to linger.
I stand where you have always stood;
Off to the side, unseen for weeks, months, even years.
In the charity and wisdom of a good woman's unconditional love.
Within my own skin, looking more comfortable with each new decade.
Outside myself to better understand how much I still don't know as yet.
Inside my own mind, a mirror reflecting the beautiful lie and the ugly truth.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Low and Golden / new poems 2011
Forge
Shine so hard,
There is nothing left
But tomorrow,
Whose sun has not said
What light will come
To those who wait
To forge the day
After it has already
Dawned anew.
Shine so hard,
There is nothing left
But tomorrow,
Whose sun has not said
What light will come
To those who wait
To forge the day
After it has already
Dawned anew.
Low and Golden / new poems 2011
As Close As Skin
As close as skin,
But where are my memories
Of you?
There is history,
years cobbled together,
vague resemblances.
Touchstones are few,
and I wonder if it is me, not you,
who is losing his memory.
As close as skin,
But where are my memories
Of you?
There is history,
years cobbled together,
vague resemblances.
Touchstones are few,
and I wonder if it is me, not you,
who is losing his memory.
Low and Golden / new poems 2011
I Have Seen My Arab Heart
I have seen my Arab heart
In a dozen eyes
As familiar as my own
That stare across
This desert America
With hope beating
The blood of sisters,
The blood of brothers
Across four continents,
Across seven oceans.
I have seen my Arab heart
In a dozen eyes
As familiar as my own
That stare across
This desert America
With hope beating
The blood of sisters,
The blood of brothers
Across four continents,
Across seven oceans.
Low and Golden / new poems 2011
Born Into This Blood
Born into this blood, roads as weary as I am
Having walked them on and on
Into the length of broadening, lowering light
Lying down across the trees, brush and bramble
Here at the edge of a thicket mind, of a rose-pricked heart,
The beyond increasingly as dark as the beginning,
With just the unseen owls there to ask the only question
That still seems to matter,
"Who?"
Goes there, has been there, carries on
In the face of a changing face,
Not only because the light is fading,
Sending shadows into the deepening lines
Of a mask at best, but because
The blood may be the only thing
Which has remained the same
Along the way.
Born into this blood, roads as weary as I am
Having walked them on and on
Into the length of broadening, lowering light
Lying down across the trees, brush and bramble
Here at the edge of a thicket mind, of a rose-pricked heart,
The beyond increasingly as dark as the beginning,
With just the unseen owls there to ask the only question
That still seems to matter,
"Who?"
Goes there, has been there, carries on
In the face of a changing face,
Not only because the light is fading,
Sending shadows into the deepening lines
Of a mask at best, but because
The blood may be the only thing
Which has remained the same
Along the way.
Low and Golden / new poems 2011
A New Alphabet
The girl waited an eternity
On the side of a desert road.
The longest day, the day that ended with a kiss
And all was forgotten in an instant;
The allegiances to still-born landscapes, self-indulgent poetry,
mother-father-brother-sister, sister-brother-father-mother,
The now dead-to-her friends in a rear-view mirror,
No sun at their backs, no sun on their faces.
At last, the girl, without direction, with no need for the North Star,
Eyes filling with black clouds, rain not tears running down red cheeks,
A new alphabet in hand, a lame falcon leading the way,
Moving beyond herself there on the side of a desert road.
The girl waited an eternity
On the side of a desert road.
The longest day, the day that ended with a kiss
And all was forgotten in an instant;
The allegiances to still-born landscapes, self-indulgent poetry,
mother-father-brother-sister, sister-brother-father-mother,
The now dead-to-her friends in a rear-view mirror,
No sun at their backs, no sun on their faces.
At last, the girl, without direction, with no need for the North Star,
Eyes filling with black clouds, rain not tears running down red cheeks,
A new alphabet in hand, a lame falcon leading the way,
Moving beyond herself there on the side of a desert road.
Low and Golden / new poems 2011
Forgotten Fight Songs
Going up against the soft, unseen,
Feather armies of self-defeating attitudes
That whisper in my darkest dreaming,
Leaving the pollen of doubt
Below a harvest moon broken by clouds
Where I sleepwalk fields of heather,
Fists boxing all my ghosts
Who hold dead bees and sing
Forgotten fight songs.
Going up against the soft, unseen,
Feather armies of self-defeating attitudes
That whisper in my darkest dreaming,
Leaving the pollen of doubt
Below a harvest moon broken by clouds
Where I sleepwalk fields of heather,
Fists boxing all my ghosts
Who hold dead bees and sing
Forgotten fight songs.
Low and Golden / new poems 2011
With a Hip Full of Roses
With a hip full of roses
I shake money from my pockets
And hope I know myself better than before,
In deference to death hanging in the errant split of a cell,
In the changing of a traffic light, in the black french kiss of depression.
With a hip full of roses
I shake money from my pockets
And hope I know myself better than before,
In deference to death hanging in the errant split of a cell,
In the changing of a traffic light, in the black french kiss of depression.
Low and Golden / new poems 2011
Of a Clap Breaking Silence
On the brink of discovery,
A smile, lying within myself,
A chrysalis rife with signs
Of impending rupture.
Flower heart,
The blood of bouquets
I swim in search of fever dreams
Where I awake a mountain.
Quiet thoughts escape
Upon the wind
Where sleep surrenders
It's own soft laugh.
Broken thunder rides
A shoreline electric with souls
Lost to the sands of time,
Like rain lost to open water.
Breath in air drunk with love
And hovering weightless,
Where the hours forget for a moment
To add themselves to years.
My smile like rain
Falling through your laughter,
Whetted remembrance
Of a clap breaking silence.
On the brink of discovery,
A smile, lying within myself,
A chrysalis rife with signs
Of impending rupture.
Flower heart,
The blood of bouquets
I swim in search of fever dreams
Where I awake a mountain.
Quiet thoughts escape
Upon the wind
Where sleep surrenders
It's own soft laugh.
Broken thunder rides
A shoreline electric with souls
Lost to the sands of time,
Like rain lost to open water.
Breath in air drunk with love
And hovering weightless,
Where the hours forget for a moment
To add themselves to years.
My smile like rain
Falling through your laughter,
Whetted remembrance
Of a clap breaking silence.
Low and Golden / new poems 2011
A Second Chance in the Sun
In the heat and long light
Of the ecliptic, the solstice
Hanging above the Tropic of Cancer,
A memory of a cold June
That belongs to another life,
One bereft of freshwater breezes,
But somehow secreting
A second chance in the sun,
Behind the scratch of
Unseasonal woolens I wore
To combat the shivering
Of suddenly being alone
In the summer of my years.
In the heat and long light
Of the ecliptic, the solstice
Hanging above the Tropic of Cancer,
A memory of a cold June
That belongs to another life,
One bereft of freshwater breezes,
But somehow secreting
A second chance in the sun,
Behind the scratch of
Unseasonal woolens I wore
To combat the shivering
Of suddenly being alone
In the summer of my years.
Low and Golden / new poems 2011
Low and Golden
Somehow surreal,
Though I have no dreams
Which end in bent blues,
Only the perfume
Of something vaguely
Lying upon my skin
Until I shake myself
To walk memories
Of Texas almond orchards
And the sense of light,
Low and golden,
They have left
Beyond sleep's own
Grey reverie.
Somehow surreal,
Though I have no dreams
Which end in bent blues,
Only the perfume
Of something vaguely
Lying upon my skin
Until I shake myself
To walk memories
Of Texas almond orchards
And the sense of light,
Low and golden,
They have left
Beyond sleep's own
Grey reverie.
Low and Golden / new poems 2011
The Wince of Sour Wine
Beyond here lie tangled, dead grape vines,
The ripe virtue of patience all but abandoned,
In turn then turned into the wince of sour wine
Poured over, into and out of these empty years,
Left drunk with anticipation that bears a bitter fruit.
Beyond here lie tangled, dead grape vines,
The ripe virtue of patience all but abandoned,
In turn then turned into the wince of sour wine
Poured over, into and out of these empty years,
Left drunk with anticipation that bears a bitter fruit.
Low and Golden / new poems 2011
10,000 Setting Suns
In the beginning a sense
Of insecurity permeating everything
Along the path where unsure steps
Impeded progress, more like a wish
Than a promise waiting in natural settings,
The smoldering plastic nights smothering dreams
Along with years and years of, "Starlight, star bright..."
And a chorus of tomorrows that only came
In the wake of destroying a love
Dragging me down into the emptiness
Of security, a quicksand where wishes, dreams,
And stars sink with 10,000 setting suns.
In the beginning a sense
Of insecurity permeating everything
Along the path where unsure steps
Impeded progress, more like a wish
Than a promise waiting in natural settings,
The smoldering plastic nights smothering dreams
Along with years and years of, "Starlight, star bright..."
And a chorus of tomorrows that only came
In the wake of destroying a love
Dragging me down into the emptiness
Of security, a quicksand where wishes, dreams,
And stars sink with 10,000 setting suns.
Low and Golden / new poems 2011
Plumb
As long as I can hold my chambered breath,
My boy safe beneath timeless waters with me,
Though sunlight playing upon the surface beckons,
The soul of the cliff diver will not seek the salt-kissed air
But further plumb the depths where conjoined history dreams.
As long as I can hold my chambered breath,
My boy safe beneath timeless waters with me,
Though sunlight playing upon the surface beckons,
The soul of the cliff diver will not seek the salt-kissed air
But further plumb the depths where conjoined history dreams.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
AUTHOR EVENT for CARRY EACH HIS BURDEN
I am absolutely thrilled to announce that I will be reading from my debut collection of stories, CARRY EACH HIS BURDEN, on Wednesday, October 12th, at 7pm at Buffalo's No.1 independent bookseller, Talking Leaves.
Monday, June 27, 2011
L.A. Rural Press update: 20 collections/500 poems
Established in August of 2008, The L.A. RURAL PRESS, an e-publishing house for my poetry, began humbly with a poem entitled, ironically, 'End Credits' from the first micro-collection, POEMS MY FATHER GAVE ME. Now, three years later, I have completed the twentieth micro-collection, BLOOMS AMID THE DEBRIS, which concludes with my 500th poem, 'Existential Blues.' Thanks to all who have visited and continue to visit and commune with my work here. - The Management
Blooms Amid The Debris / new poems 2011
Existential Blues
Maybe I am,
Maybe I am not
Existing only perhaps
In the vacuum of love
Maybe I am,
Maybe I am not
Existing only perhaps
In the vacuum of love
Blooms Amid The Debris / new poems 2011
Behind Blue Stars
Sail away with me the harvest light fading over the water
To begin a day half way around the world where our dreams
Hold no truth, no secrets in the eyes of those about to awake
But wait patiently for us to find sleeping behind blue stars
Sail away with me the harvest light fading over the water
To begin a day half way around the world where our dreams
Hold no truth, no secrets in the eyes of those about to awake
But wait patiently for us to find sleeping behind blue stars
Blooms Amid The Debris / new poems 2011
To Wait The Wind
You turned a corner,
left me behind
as the fog rolled in from the Pacific
into Topanga, flooding a canyon,
clouding my mind,
leaving me to wait the wind,
for a Santa Ana to clear a path,
to go on without you.
You turned a corner,
left me behind
as the fog rolled in from the Pacific
into Topanga, flooding a canyon,
clouding my mind,
leaving me to wait the wind,
for a Santa Ana to clear a path,
to go on without you.
Blooms Amid The Debris / new poems 2011
Where You Ran
In a grey room,
A bluestone fireplace
Cold compared to outside's summer sun,
Where you ran, a little girl in tomboy clothes,
Away from your mother, a wife well on her way to becoming a widow,
Out to edge of Lake Ontario whose white noise waves' wash
Drowned out the sound of your young father dying inside
Lying prone upon a black embroidered couch
In a grey room,
A bluestone fireplace
Cold compared to outside's summer sun,
Where you ran, a little girl in tomboy clothes,
Away from your mother, a wife well on her way to becoming a widow,
Out to edge of Lake Ontario whose white noise waves' wash
Drowned out the sound of your young father dying inside
Lying prone upon a black embroidered couch
Blooms Amid The Debris / new poems 2011
Already Gone
Already gone
Though memories linger
Of a life of anticipation I left
For one where I contemplate my thoughts
Beyond the limitations of what will come
That can't be seen and only believed
Once it disappears to be replaced
By pointless reverie of what was
While today walks on
With or without
Our consent
Already gone
Though memories linger
Of a life of anticipation I left
For one where I contemplate my thoughts
Beyond the limitations of what will come
That can't be seen and only believed
Once it disappears to be replaced
By pointless reverie of what was
While today walks on
With or without
Our consent
Blooms Amid The Debris / new poems 2011
Walks On
She walks on with me these intuitions
that have hovered above intellect,
beholden only to gut feelings
raw whimsy, naked emotion
and not to the gravity
that holds others
firmly bound to
circumstance.
She walks on with me these intuitions
that have hovered above intellect,
beholden only to gut feelings
raw whimsy, naked emotion
and not to the gravity
that holds others
firmly bound to
circumstance.
Blooms Amid The Debris / new poems 2011
Where Love Can Never Live Without Your Touch
Hold my heart
When its beat grows faint
From the fatigue of gestures
Toward those I have no intention
To really ever know beyond
A glance, a glare, a given moment
Where love can never live
Without your touch
Hold my heart
When its beat grows faint
From the fatigue of gestures
Toward those I have no intention
To really ever know beyond
A glance, a glare, a given moment
Where love can never live
Without your touch
Friday, June 24, 2011
Blooms Amid The Debris / new poems 2011
Last Blues
Relationships slowly broken apart across a crawl of decades
into a scatter of pieces - a brother here, a sister there -
distant and indistinct shards that cut, gouged, slashed
a sensitive soul quietly making his own distinct mark
with an unquiet mind amid the cries of last blues.
Relationships slowly broken apart across a crawl of decades
into a scatter of pieces - a brother here, a sister there -
distant and indistinct shards that cut, gouged, slashed
a sensitive soul quietly making his own distinct mark
with an unquiet mind amid the cries of last blues.
Blooms Amid The Debris / new poems 2011
In The Wake Of
Tequila on our tongues, drunk with laughter,
our fumbling flesh finds its sleep at last
in the wake of salt-kissed lips parting,
leaving passion passed out between us.
Tequila on our tongues, drunk with laughter,
our fumbling flesh finds its sleep at last
in the wake of salt-kissed lips parting,
leaving passion passed out between us.
Blooms Amid The Debris / new poems 2011
A Life Without Sun
Look no further, love smiles in the face of being found
though it was never lost, only looking as well for a knowing grin
to let its guard down, allowing it at last to come out from the shadows
a life without sun somehow still casts upon a lonely heart.
Look no further, love smiles in the face of being found
though it was never lost, only looking as well for a knowing grin
to let its guard down, allowing it at last to come out from the shadows
a life without sun somehow still casts upon a lonely heart.
Blooms Amid The Debris / new poems 2011
100 Years From Now (Long Dead And Gone)
Somewhere,
100 years from now,
my son, an old man,
sitting on a porch,
face turned toward
a setting sun
thinking of
his father,
long dead
and gone.
Somewhere,
100 years from now,
my son, an old man,
sitting on a porch,
face turned toward
a setting sun
thinking of
his father,
long dead
and gone.
Blooms Amid The Debris / new poems 2011
Atlantis
Dance me across this water
no longer rising, not yet receding,
with the rhythm of the waves own
rise, crest, and break until we breach
the sands that lie in wait for us
on the other side of a sea
that holds the ruins
of our lives without love.
Dance me across this water
no longer rising, not yet receding,
with the rhythm of the waves own
rise, crest, and break until we breach
the sands that lie in wait for us
on the other side of a sea
that holds the ruins
of our lives without love.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Blooms Amid The Debris / new poems 2011
Flowers Between The Fallout
Walking the debris field
in the aftermath of
everything,
eyes combing the chaos
of purposeful destruction
for sense among the senseless,
a reason in the absence of rhyme,
flowers between the fallout.
Walking the debris field
in the aftermath of
everything,
eyes combing the chaos
of purposeful destruction
for sense among the senseless,
a reason in the absence of rhyme,
flowers between the fallout.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Blooms Amid The Debris / new poems 2011
Perfume
The perfume of you
still lingers on air
you parted when you left.
The perfect of you
still haunts the room
you left a week now gone.
The presence of you
still spirits the lost soul
you lifted but then left behind.
The perfume of you
still lingers on air
you parted when you left.
The perfect of you
still haunts the room
you left a week now gone.
The presence of you
still spirits the lost soul
you lifted but then left behind.
Blooms Amid The Debris / new poems 2011
Orleans
The sway of you, in arms moving like the breeze
on this street, pulled close from either side
by the ancient art of its own architecture,
resolved to its history, to the open air,
where we breathe her gilded night,
where we dance with old Orleans.
The sway of you, in arms moving like the breeze
on this street, pulled close from either side
by the ancient art of its own architecture,
resolved to its history, to the open air,
where we breathe her gilded night,
where we dance with old Orleans.
Blooms Amid The Debris / new poems 2011
The Ways Of Love
the ways of love breaking wide open/
the pomegranate hitting the ground
the cinnamon on your tongue tingling
the bouquet caught upon the wind
/the time before time began/
the dance between touch and touched
the light kissing summer's shoulders
the rhythm of the days making music
/the time after time again/
the ways of love breaking wide open
the ways of love breaking wide open/
the pomegranate hitting the ground
the cinnamon on your tongue tingling
the bouquet caught upon the wind
/the time before time began/
the dance between touch and touched
the light kissing summer's shoulders
the rhythm of the days making music
/the time after time again/
the ways of love breaking wide open
Blooms Amid The Debris / new poems 2011
Lines 1-24
Make a church
of the woods
Make rivers
into sacraments
Make a catechism
from humility
* * *
Offer confession
to the wind
Pray to
the sky
Kneel before
the ocean
* * *
Believe
in now
Believe
in instinct
Believe in
love
* * *
Coincidence
is for the pagan
Convenience
is for the infidel
Contrition
is for the martyr
Make a church
of the woods
Make rivers
into sacraments
Make a catechism
from humility
* * *
Offer confession
to the wind
Pray to
the sky
Kneel before
the ocean
* * *
Believe
in now
Believe
in instinct
Believe in
love
* * *
Coincidence
is for the pagan
Convenience
is for the infidel
Contrition
is for the martyr
Blooms Amid The Debris / new poems 2011
Too Far Gone
Too far gone from where I don't know now
but then again upon reflection it seems
to me I was not there for very long
before I left and found I was
further away from
wherever it was
you were not.
Too far gone from where I don't know now
but then again upon reflection it seems
to me I was not there for very long
before I left and found I was
further away from
wherever it was
you were not.
Blooms Amid The Debris / new poems 2011
Laughing (The Music Of It All)
laughing
at myself,
with myself,
in spite of myself
the music of it all,
pure ozone after the rain,
informing the air
with its not so silent
smile
laughing
at myself,
with myself,
in spite of myself
the music of it all,
pure ozone after the rain,
informing the air
with its not so silent
smile
Blooms Amid The Debris / new poems 2011
Before The Ocean Forgets Your Name
Raise a hand above the waterline
beyond broken love, no love,
and so love goes
though she still sings
from the rocks her siren songs -
Tearing at sails, breaking masts
Tearing at souls, breaking hearts
A captain can't always go down
with the ship,
so swim or die trying,
but raise a hand,
and make like hell for shore -
Kissing salt of water, embracing the tide
Kissing panic on the lips, embracing fear
Reach beyond yourself to reach the one
who'll save you,
drag you from the waves,
lay you upon the sand,
before the ocean forgets your name -
Raise a hand above the waterline
beyond broken love, no love,
and so love goes
though she still sings
from the rocks her siren songs -
Tearing at sails, breaking masts
Tearing at souls, breaking hearts
A captain can't always go down
with the ship,
so swim or die trying,
but raise a hand,
and make like hell for shore -
Kissing salt of water, embracing the tide
Kissing panic on the lips, embracing fear
Reach beyond yourself to reach the one
who'll save you,
drag you from the waves,
lay you upon the sand,
before the ocean forgets your name -
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
All The Suns, So Far / new poems 2011
Where Nowhere Becomes Somewhere In The Name Of Moving On
The motion of my emotions carrying me along,
scattering the best of my intentions to the wind,
leaving a trail of convictions winding out behind me
where nowhere becomes somewhere in the name of moving on.
The motion of my emotions carrying me along,
scattering the best of my intentions to the wind,
leaving a trail of convictions winding out behind me
where nowhere becomes somewhere in the name of moving on.
All The Suns, So Far / new poems 2011
Just Another Hitchhiker
A quarter million miles away from faces changed forever,
as unrecognizable to me as I am now to each of them,
awaiting the next ride to take me further on down
the road I wander as just another hitchhiker.
A quarter million miles away from faces changed forever,
as unrecognizable to me as I am now to each of them,
awaiting the next ride to take me further on down
the road I wander as just another hitchhiker.
All The Suns, So Far / new poems 2011
From The Colors
Time fades away
into the foggy grey
of our almost memories,
where we build our history
from the colors we still recall.
Time fades away
into the foggy grey
of our almost memories,
where we build our history
from the colors we still recall.
All The Suns, So Far / new poems 2011
Another Me
out beyond
myself
another me
already hard at work
fashioning a face from experience,
inventing a new language from reflection,
designing desire all over again from scratch
out beyond
myself
another me
only I will recognize
out beyond
myself
another me
already hard at work
fashioning a face from experience,
inventing a new language from reflection,
designing desire all over again from scratch
out beyond
myself
another me
only I will recognize
All The Suns, So Far / new poems 2011
Jigsaw
Where can I put the pieces of a dream
that I no longer desire to puzzle together?
My pockets are full of the wind blowing off the water.
My hands are full of the rain falling from the clouds.
My heart is full of the sunlight shining from the sky.
How can I carry the pieces of a dream
that I no longer care at all to fit together?
Where can I put the pieces of a dream
that I no longer desire to puzzle together?
My pockets are full of the wind blowing off the water.
My hands are full of the rain falling from the clouds.
My heart is full of the sunlight shining from the sky.
How can I carry the pieces of a dream
that I no longer care at all to fit together?
All The Suns, So Far / new poems 2011
More Than Moments
You cannot mask the madness
you carry like a clock,
wear like a watch.
In dim-lit rooms it casts
an untimely shadow
larger than your own.
It speaks when not spoken to,
listens only long enough
to know when to interrupt
thought,
feeling,
more than moments,
but in fact the very ticking
of collective time forced out of time
across a life without rhythm.
You cannot mask the madness
you carry like a clock,
wear like a watch.
In dim-lit rooms it casts
an untimely shadow
larger than your own.
It speaks when not spoken to,
listens only long enough
to know when to interrupt
thought,
feeling,
more than moments,
but in fact the very ticking
of collective time forced out of time
across a life without rhythm.
All The Suns, So Far / new poems 2011
We Will Not Outrun The End
Set in motion
with a gasp, a cry-broken breath,
upon a path leading to the same destination
to walk along and wonder at
with every new horizon holding
the reoccurring revelation
we will not outrun the end,
but in the end run out of breath
around the last bend of the path
we have strode and stumbled along.
Set in motion
with a gasp, a cry-broken breath,
upon a path leading to the same destination
to walk along and wonder at
with every new horizon holding
the reoccurring revelation
we will not outrun the end,
but in the end run out of breath
around the last bend of the path
we have strode and stumbled along.
All The Suns, So Far / new poems 2011
To Cup Rain
Thankful
for a second chance
to cup rain in the same hand
I waved a final, long goodbye with
when the clouds first hovered overhead
Thankful
for a second chance
to cup rain in the same hand
I waved a final, long goodbye with
when the clouds first hovered overhead
All The Suns, So Far / new poems 2011
Knowing
Dreams collapse
in the sting of a new morning
that dawns upon you
with the pain of what was
and what has become in the decay
of a life you left behind,
taking only your heart along
and not the presence of mind
to know the difference between
wanting and having.
Dreams collapse
in the sting of a new morning
that dawns upon you
with the pain of what was
and what has become in the decay
of a life you left behind,
taking only your heart along
and not the presence of mind
to know the difference between
wanting and having.
All The Suns, So Far / new poems 2011
In A Hum No One Hears (for C.M.A.)
He stands in silence
on the western edge
of the continent
content to hold the ocean
in his thoughts,
the white noise of her
in a hum no one hears,
a lament for the drowning sun,
still unsure it will rise again
upon eastern shoulders
he once laid his
unquiet mind upon.
He stands in silence
on the western edge
of the continent
content to hold the ocean
in his thoughts,
the white noise of her
in a hum no one hears,
a lament for the drowning sun,
still unsure it will rise again
upon eastern shoulders
he once laid his
unquiet mind upon.
All The Suns, So Far / new poems 2011
Walk On
Walk beside me, my son,
not in my footsteps,
together until
you let go of my hand
and walk on without me.
Walk beside me, my son,
not in my footsteps,
together until
you let go of my hand
and walk on without me.
All The Suns, So Far / new poems 2011
Skin
You covered me in your skin,
disguised my shortcomings,
camouflaged my misgivings,
while my own blood pulsed
beneath with unabated fear
for days turned end over end
tattooing the years to come
with a certain uncertainty
until I was ready to shed
my anxieties and insecurities
and step naked into the sun.
You covered me in your skin,
disguised my shortcomings,
camouflaged my misgivings,
while my own blood pulsed
beneath with unabated fear
for days turned end over end
tattooing the years to come
with a certain uncertainty
until I was ready to shed
my anxieties and insecurities
and step naked into the sun.
All The Suns, So Far / new poems 2011
Summer After Summer
Slip away with me into summer after summer,
hidden on our shore that ends abruptly
with a palisade of shale and clay
eroding above our heads
as our two hearts
fill up year after year
with these sediments of sentiment,
a foothold, a beach head all our own
where we endure winter's inevitable weather
Slip away with me into summer after summer,
hidden on our shore that ends abruptly
with a palisade of shale and clay
eroding above our heads
as our two hearts
fill up year after year
with these sediments of sentiment,
a foothold, a beach head all our own
where we endure winter's inevitable weather
All The Suns, So Far / new poems 2011
Down The Road
Down the road,
the hard decisions
behind us in a fading
but not forgotten landscape
we carved with our own bare hands.
Down the road,
the hard decisions
behind us in a fading
but not forgotten landscape
we carved with our own bare hands.
All The Suns, So Far / new poems 2011
Ragged Debris
Time betrays our best intentions,
Leaves the ragged debris of regret
Clogging veins and blocking arteries
Below the smoke and smolder of fallout,
Of falling out with our own expectations.
Time betrays our best intentions,
Leaves the ragged debris of regret
Clogging veins and blocking arteries
Below the smoke and smolder of fallout,
Of falling out with our own expectations.
Monday, June 20, 2011
All The Suns, So Far / new poems 2011
The Fog Of Us
The water, wide, tired and slowly wandering
while holding up a horizon hung with the weight of haze
for the fog of us here upon the uncertainty of sand's shores
to prop up along with the slipping confidence of a reluctant sunset.
The water, wide, tired and slowly wandering
while holding up a horizon hung with the weight of haze
for the fog of us here upon the uncertainty of sand's shores
to prop up along with the slipping confidence of a reluctant sunset.
All The Suns, So Far / new poems 2011
Whittled
When no one was looking I whittled a new face
From the forest for the trees where I hid out
Waiting for a recognition which never found me
When no one was looking I whittled a new face
From the forest for the trees where I hid out
Waiting for a recognition which never found me
All The Suns, So Far / new poems 2011
All The Suns, So Far
I never saw
any of it
coming
The two broken baby teeth lying bloodied in a snowy road
A red balloon slipping into the sky from a little boy hand
My misguided drives through a haze of chemical hubris
Leaving childhood behind for an entwine of lust's legs
A grey wedding day masquerading as a lasting love
The pale saint of me fading like an old photograph
Her saving grace offering more than moments
The wilderness of days becoming a decade
A blessing of a beautiful boy for us both
The light above, upon wide open water
Promises never made but still kept
The changing shoreline below us
The sky without rain for now
Whatever is yet to come
All the suns, so far
I never saw
any of it
coming
The two broken baby teeth lying bloodied in a snowy road
A red balloon slipping into the sky from a little boy hand
My misguided drives through a haze of chemical hubris
Leaving childhood behind for an entwine of lust's legs
A grey wedding day masquerading as a lasting love
The pale saint of me fading like an old photograph
Her saving grace offering more than moments
The wilderness of days becoming a decade
A blessing of a beautiful boy for us both
The light above, upon wide open water
Promises never made but still kept
The changing shoreline below us
The sky without rain for now
Whatever is yet to come
All the suns, so far
All The Suns, So Far / new poems 2011
The Weight Of Without You
the weight of without you
carried across cold shoulders
like an empty wind holding me back
the weight of without you
carried across cold shoulders
like an empty wind holding me back
All The Suns, So Far / new poems 2011
The World Is Not Enough
Don't turn away,
the world is not enough
with her blue Eden,
her black-eyed beauty
hiding her betrayals
better than I can my own.
Safe and sound,
hold the ocean
while I rest a while
upon sand we ground together
with our bare hands,
blood palm hearts.
Stretch, reach the sky
and its foggy stars
before the morning breaks
the sunset's fading promise
of never-ending night,
again.
Seek my shadow
hidden somewhere
in the dim of a hardwood stand,
where young love once
carved a cardinal song
for us to hum.
Bury our dream
beneath the path worn
by our unintended pursuit
of something beyond the tangle
of want, where need lies down
to sleep between our souls.
Don't turn away,
the world is not enough
with her blue Eden,
her black-eyed beauty
hiding her betrayals
better than I can my own.
Safe and sound,
hold the ocean
while I rest a while
upon sand we ground together
with our bare hands,
blood palm hearts.
Stretch, reach the sky
and its foggy stars
before the morning breaks
the sunset's fading promise
of never-ending night,
again.
Seek my shadow
hidden somewhere
in the dim of a hardwood stand,
where young love once
carved a cardinal song
for us to hum.
Bury our dream
beneath the path worn
by our unintended pursuit
of something beyond the tangle
of want, where need lies down
to sleep between our souls.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Year Of The Horse / new poems 2011
Better Days (Year Of The Horse, 2014)
Fifty years beyond the Year Of The Dragon
I will ride the wild horse alongside better days
that had once run free before the Year Of The Rat.
Fifty years beyond the Year Of The Dragon
I will ride the wild horse alongside better days
that had once run free before the Year Of The Rat.
Year Of The Horse / new poems 2011
Take The Reins
Take the reins and bind my useless hands,
drag me these final hours turned miles,
home to where the sun heals scars,
to where the rain washes tears,
to where the wind rides on.
Take the reins and bind my useless hands,
drag me these final hours turned miles,
home to where the sun heals scars,
to where the rain washes tears,
to where the wind rides on.
Year Of The Horse / new poems 2011
Reluctant Widows
Scatter the ashes
of a man I met
just once -
Prayers
can't find a voice
inside the wind -
An ocean
swallows the salt
of tears -
His name remains
and walks on
alone -
We bury the past
when present tense
slips away -
Scatter the ashes
of a man I met
just once -
Prayers
can't find a voice
inside the wind -
An ocean
swallows the salt
of tears -
His name remains
and walks on
alone -
We bury the past
when present tense
slips away -
Year Of The Horse / new poems 2011
Burn Down The Arcade
Burn down the arcade,
the games of youth
have no more use
to an aging man
who risked all
to win love.
Burn down the arcade,
the games of youth
have no more use
to an aging man
who risked all
to win love.
Year Of The Horse / new poems 2011
Don't Spook The Horse
Quietly now,
tread ever so lightly
across creaking timbers.
Leave your shadow
outside to wait behind
in the white-loud sun.
Our love, still wild, spooks easily
from its sleep where our dreams
ride wind like whispers slipping
through slats in stalls
where time reminds memories
of not only the muddy rumble
of all those endless quarter miles,
but of the silence of dust settling
through the last shafts of low light
as meadows draw dark and our aging desires
finally sigh in reflection, in mum recognition
that the race is not to the swift,
but to those who know the odds against them
and still run without fanfare,
without need of exhortations to stir the soul
to finish what the heart has started.
Quietly now,
tread ever so lightly
across creaking timbers.
Leave your shadow
outside to wait behind
in the white-loud sun.
Our love, still wild, spooks easily
from its sleep where our dreams
ride wind like whispers slipping
through slats in stalls
where time reminds memories
of not only the muddy rumble
of all those endless quarter miles,
but of the silence of dust settling
through the last shafts of low light
as meadows draw dark and our aging desires
finally sigh in reflection, in mum recognition
that the race is not to the swift,
but to those who know the odds against them
and still run without fanfare,
without need of exhortations to stir the soul
to finish what the heart has started.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Year Of The Horse / new poems 2011
Kissing Desert, Swooning By The Sea
California,
kissing desert,
swooning by the sea,
lying in defiance of geology,
of eventual, inevitable mutability,
of time ticking beneath shifting sand,
her own unwilling, temperamental bedrock,
eschewing the sanctuary of the Rocky Mountains,
leaving the prairies to time left standing still
in favor of a march to the shining sea,
to glimpse the sun's curtain call
while she can, at last again
despite the dark visage
descending on palms
without promise
of return.
California,
kissing desert,
swooning by the sea,
lying in defiance of geology,
of eventual, inevitable mutability,
of time ticking beneath shifting sand,
her own unwilling, temperamental bedrock,
eschewing the sanctuary of the Rocky Mountains,
leaving the prairies to time left standing still
in favor of a march to the shining sea,
to glimpse the sun's curtain call
while she can, at last again
despite the dark visage
descending on palms
without promise
of return.
Year Of The Horse / new poems 2011
Asleep, Within Us All
Sleep away the last summer
beneath a grey sky;
no,
instead
search the unseasonably cold wind
for more/other/new answers
concerning
love
and its correlation
to the cosmos,
to self-actualization,
to patience
and its connection to the prosperity of the soul
and its fortune, its promise of simple pleasures
to be mined
in search of a wealth beyond riches
found in the discovery of a sun hidden
behind all of the grey skies of summers
not yet seen,
awaiting to be awakened
days, years, decades on from now
asleep, within
us all.
Sleep away the last summer
beneath a grey sky;
no,
instead
search the unseasonably cold wind
for more/other/new answers
concerning
love
and its correlation
to the cosmos,
to self-actualization,
to patience
and its connection to the prosperity of the soul
and its fortune, its promise of simple pleasures
to be mined
in search of a wealth beyond riches
found in the discovery of a sun hidden
behind all of the grey skies of summers
not yet seen,
awaiting to be awakened
days, years, decades on from now
asleep, within
us all.
Year Of The Horse / new poems 2011
The Sea's Melody
Let the night and its music
swallow my love in breaking waves,
tones of droning hardingfele drowning her
beneath the wake of an unfathomable dream,
she divines to surface by first light, dawn's song,
leaving the rhythm of the sea's melody for her to hum.
Let the night and its music
swallow my love in breaking waves,
tones of droning hardingfele drowning her
beneath the wake of an unfathomable dream,
she divines to surface by first light, dawn's song,
leaving the rhythm of the sea's melody for her to hum.
Year Of The Horse / new poems 2011
So Strange Beyond
I no longer visit the shallow graves of my dead, but blood, brothers
still walking the waking world, their disembodied voices falling muted
upon my deaf mind's eye no longer able to recognize faces so strange
beyond familiarity, more anecdotal than familial, and no longer immortal.
I no longer visit the shallow graves of my dead, but blood, brothers
still walking the waking world, their disembodied voices falling muted
upon my deaf mind's eye no longer able to recognize faces so strange
beyond familiarity, more anecdotal than familial, and no longer immortal.
Year Of The Horse / new poems 2011
With The Wind Of Them
The dead are quiet, wait like ice,
melt slowly into memories,
cottoning the cold room
with the wind of them.
The dead are quiet, wait like ice,
melt slowly into memories,
cottoning the cold room
with the wind of them.
Year Of The Horse / new poems 2011
A Veil Of Memories
The year beyond brings
a blur of what is to come;
our impatient deja vu
triggered by anticipation,
not a veil of memories
of all that we yet will do.
The year beyond brings
a blur of what is to come;
our impatient deja vu
triggered by anticipation,
not a veil of memories
of all that we yet will do.
Year Of The Horse / new poems 2011
Tired Eyes
Your tired eyes
close the sky
and stars go cold.
I hear your soul
in our son's
first fragile words.
All this waiting
on Heaven
is for the birds.
Here is now
and where we live
in place of if and when.
The sun crows
our morning awake
with no need for dreams.
A notion dawns
that we are all we have
when the world spins away.
Your tired eyes
reflect the struggle
between alive and living.
Your tired eyes
close the sky
and stars go cold.
I hear your soul
in our son's
first fragile words.
All this waiting
on Heaven
is for the birds.
Here is now
and where we live
in place of if and when.
The sun crows
our morning awake
with no need for dreams.
A notion dawns
that we are all we have
when the world spins away.
Your tired eyes
reflect the struggle
between alive and living.
Year Of The Horse / new poems 2011
Times Square (Dirty Nostalgia)
Broadway jitters I've left behind
for glitter gutters where I crawl,
scrawl my own makeup
over a death masked man
forever staging a comeback,
stumbling the dirty nostalgia
of Times Square streets
where love once lived,
defiled, desperate and real;
a Picasso, not a plastic reminder
of all we have forsaken:
The Art of Life.
Broadway jitters I've left behind
for glitter gutters where I crawl,
scrawl my own makeup
over a death masked man
forever staging a comeback,
stumbling the dirty nostalgia
of Times Square streets
where love once lived,
defiled, desperate and real;
a Picasso, not a plastic reminder
of all we have forsaken:
The Art of Life.
Year Of The Horse / new poems 2011
Year Of The Horse (1990)
No red money broke dreams,
it was a blind bet on a blue mare
without conscience, without conviction,
her wild eyes sowing oats of deceit, denial;
all costing me an unending debt of days
wandering a fenced-in wilderness
well after the year of the horse.
No red money broke dreams,
it was a blind bet on a blue mare
without conscience, without conviction,
her wild eyes sowing oats of deceit, denial;
all costing me an unending debt of days
wandering a fenced-in wilderness
well after the year of the horse.
Year Of The Horse / new poems 2011
Tears Rust Love (Don't Cry)
Flog our dreams until they bleed, scarring our soft souls.
Tears rust love, decay the heart beyond its own blood weather.
Crawl inside the shadows of the mind that only conceives the sun.
Don't cry for me as I carry the burden of our dreams beyond shoulders.
Flog our dreams until they bleed, scarring our soft souls.
Tears rust love, decay the heart beyond its own blood weather.
Crawl inside the shadows of the mind that only conceives the sun.
Don't cry for me as I carry the burden of our dreams beyond shoulders.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Year Of The Horse / new poems 2011
Long Shot (for C. Maxwell Anderson)
Deny, defy,
don't ask, don't get
An empty pocket full of regrets
is the price you'll pay instead
if you pull your punches
Remember then as you whip the horse blind
the odds are what keep it even in the end,
so ride your long shot until it drops dead
Deny, defy,
don't ask, don't get
An empty pocket full of regrets
is the price you'll pay instead
if you pull your punches
Remember then as you whip the horse blind
the odds are what keep it even in the end,
so ride your long shot until it drops dead
Year Of The Horse / new poems 2011
Naive Melody
Erik Satie
sits in a tree outside my window
notes, acorns
on the ground
I will gather
from the frost-bit grass
In sullen anticipation of another
northern winter
freezing all five of the Great Lakes,
leaving me to rely
upon
the movement of naive melody
when all else resolves itself
to stasis
Erik Satie
sits in a tree outside my window
notes, acorns
on the ground
I will gather
from the frost-bit grass
In sullen anticipation of another
northern winter
freezing all five of the Great Lakes,
leaving me to rely
upon
the movement of naive melody
when all else resolves itself
to stasis
Year Of The Horse / new poems 2011
This Misbegotten Gallery
They tried to kill me;
brothers, sisters, lovers, wives,
supposed saints, obvious infidels,
blood relatives and vampire friends
But I ran like hell
down an unending hall,
on fire,
waving a pistol
All unsure
if my intent was to shoot myself
or them
A rhetorical notion
considering this misbegotten gallery
were all long dead to me
already
They tried to kill me;
brothers, sisters, lovers, wives,
supposed saints, obvious infidels,
blood relatives and vampire friends
But I ran like hell
down an unending hall,
on fire,
waving a pistol
All unsure
if my intent was to shoot myself
or them
A rhetorical notion
considering this misbegotten gallery
were all long dead to me
already
Year Of The Horse / new poems 2011
Two Glass Hands
my heart
out of tune,
at times
distant,
trapped beneath the ice
you will shatter
with your two glass hands
breaking us both
apart
but leaving us again
connected
by our beating hearts
my heart
out of tune,
at times
distant,
trapped beneath the ice
you will shatter
with your two glass hands
breaking us both
apart
but leaving us again
connected
by our beating hearts
Year Of The Horse / new poems 2011
Today/Tomorrow (Tempus Fugit)
Leaves clung to wet streets
Trembling -
Much the same as they do
Today -
Skies split, rumbled, cracked,
Tore -
Raining the struggle across
Time -
Heart strings weathered pulled
Taut -
Tempus Fugit in the face of
Tomorrow -
Leaves clung to wet streets
Trembling -
Much the same as they do
Today -
Skies split, rumbled, cracked,
Tore -
Raining the struggle across
Time -
Heart strings weathered pulled
Taut -
Tempus Fugit in the face of
Tomorrow -
Friday, May 27, 2011
The Rivers I Have Hidden From The Sea / 2011
To A Sea Uncertain
I gave myself to the river,
walked out of the rushes,
waded deep the rush,
laid myself supine
in her currents
never pulled
by the moon
but led along
by instinct alone,
afraid no more to let
nature take her course
and me to a sea uncertain
I gave myself to the river,
walked out of the rushes,
waded deep the rush,
laid myself supine
in her currents
never pulled
by the moon
but led along
by instinct alone,
afraid no more to let
nature take her course
and me to a sea uncertain
The Rivers I Have Hidden From The Sea / 2011
The Stars Hold No Rain
Grow 'til tall.
I will carry you
even after you are.
The trees protect us,
so climb, reach for the clouds,
the stars hold no rain for saplings to suckle.
Stand on my shoulders
and pocket the open sky
to keep in your cedar box.
Even the sun sleeps,
so close your eyes and dream,
the night holds the tomorrows you awake older.
Grow 'til tall.
I will carry you
even after you are.
The trees protect us,
so climb, reach for the clouds,
the stars hold no rain for saplings to suckle.
Stand on my shoulders
and pocket the open sky
to keep in your cedar box.
Even the sun sleeps,
so close your eyes and dream,
the night holds the tomorrows you awake older.
The Rivers I Have Hidden From The Sea / 2011
All Animals (I-VII)
All animals,
fossil futures'
muffled humming beneath the weight
of sediment and stone, quietly churned
to oil
Our lamps light landscapes,
the dark of day broken
by a bowl of starlight -
the missing mass of matter
found in filaments of galaxies -
dead and buried we join the soil,
a final bedrock resting place
To lie down
with a thousand dead horses
in the fields of Little Big Horn,
To sink down
with remnants of mastodons
in the asphaltum of La Brea's pits,
To fall down
with the weakest of an elk herd
in the dead, dark of Alaskan winter
Burn the last of what is left,
tall stands, hardwood mausoleums
of organic communion where
the time of Christ is marked
with rings,
just the same as yours or mine
The birds know no religion,
but fly closer to Heaven
than those who pray,
tame the beasts
for burden,
though a name for all
enslaves not even a single one
Our songs,
our books,
our tools,
our science,
our religion,
our progress
All impermanent,
as all animals succumb to time,
and we are only one of many
despite our imagined dominance
All animals,
fossil futures'
muffled humming beneath the weight
of sediment and stone, quietly churned
to oil
Our lamps light landscapes,
the dark of day broken
by a bowl of starlight -
the missing mass of matter
found in filaments of galaxies -
dead and buried we join the soil,
a final bedrock resting place
To lie down
with a thousand dead horses
in the fields of Little Big Horn,
To sink down
with remnants of mastodons
in the asphaltum of La Brea's pits,
To fall down
with the weakest of an elk herd
in the dead, dark of Alaskan winter
Burn the last of what is left,
tall stands, hardwood mausoleums
of organic communion where
the time of Christ is marked
with rings,
just the same as yours or mine
The birds know no religion,
but fly closer to Heaven
than those who pray,
tame the beasts
for burden,
though a name for all
enslaves not even a single one
Our songs,
our books,
our tools,
our science,
our religion,
our progress
All impermanent,
as all animals succumb to time,
and we are only one of many
despite our imagined dominance
The Rivers I Have Hidden From The Sea / 2011
The River Before Me
To ford the river before me
I must consider
the boy who comes after me
His eyes wide, reflecting the great Western Expansion
His features betraying an amalgam of Old World relatives
- Swedes, Germans, Irish, Austrians, Russians, Scots, Brits -
All of whom forded an ocean broad, upon sail and upon steam
Upon the dreams emanating from the headwaters of imagination
A stream of consciousness
I must consider
With this river before me
To ford the river before me
I must consider
the boy who comes after me
His eyes wide, reflecting the great Western Expansion
His features betraying an amalgam of Old World relatives
- Swedes, Germans, Irish, Austrians, Russians, Scots, Brits -
All of whom forded an ocean broad, upon sail and upon steam
Upon the dreams emanating from the headwaters of imagination
A stream of consciousness
I must consider
With this river before me
The Rivers I Have Hidden From The Sea / 2011
Shining Like Discovery
Jamestown found me,
a lost soul looking for a lost colony
"To belong, to belong, only to belong."
Round and round I had once gone
only to find, to face me again left alone
"To belong, to belong, only to belong."
Until westward ho I went
beyond rain worn memories soaking a soul
"To belong, to belong, only to belong."
The spirit of her auburn sun
shining like discovery for a lost explorer
Jamestown found me,
a lost soul looking for a lost colony
"To belong, to belong, only to belong."
Round and round I had once gone
only to find, to face me again left alone
"To belong, to belong, only to belong."
Until westward ho I went
beyond rain worn memories soaking a soul
"To belong, to belong, only to belong."
The spirit of her auburn sun
shining like discovery for a lost explorer
The Rivers I Have Hidden From The Sea / 2011
A Rhyme, A Round (Rain, Rain Come Again)
Rain, rain comes
then goes away
Souls swim the sky
in its damp aftermath
Green beyond green soaked
and almost glowing
From a covered porch
we wait for last lightning
Thunder heading on and up
the unsuspecting coast
Sun finds her smile
and squints upon thick air
Spirits sing a rhyme, a round
of rain, rain come again
Rain, rain comes
then goes away
Souls swim the sky
in its damp aftermath
Green beyond green soaked
and almost glowing
From a covered porch
we wait for last lightning
Thunder heading on and up
the unsuspecting coast
Sun finds her smile
and squints upon thick air
Spirits sing a rhyme, a round
of rain, rain come again
The Rivers I Have Hidden From The Sea / 2011
Up Upon Air
I have walked on and on
until levitation took my heels
and lifted them up upon air without
weight or any inference I did not belong
amidst the wings, wind, mountains, and souls
I once found myself earthbound below grounded by
mortality, gravity and a confidence hidden by the clouds
I have walked on and on
until levitation took my heels
and lifted them up upon air without
weight or any inference I did not belong
amidst the wings, wind, mountains, and souls
I once found myself earthbound below grounded by
mortality, gravity and a confidence hidden by the clouds
Thursday, May 26, 2011
The Rivers I Have Hidden From The Sea / 2011
Map Of My Blood (A Sanguine Atlas)
Lost somewhere in the map of my blood
forming memories from farm landscapes -
The Upper Peninsula's
Apple orchards picked before frost's kiss,
Cotton fields' soft white
in the fading, insect-bit light of Arkansas,
Pecan trees shook empty
in the dusty broom sweep of West Texas
Florida's citrus handpicked
by weathered, worn hands of immigrants
- Fruits found in their labors somehow
informing the folds of a sanguine atlas
Lost somewhere in the map of my blood
forming memories from farm landscapes -
The Upper Peninsula's
Apple orchards picked before frost's kiss,
Cotton fields' soft white
in the fading, insect-bit light of Arkansas,
Pecan trees shook empty
in the dusty broom sweep of West Texas
Florida's citrus handpicked
by weathered, worn hands of immigrants
- Fruits found in their labors somehow
informing the folds of a sanguine atlas
The Rivers I Have Hidden From The Sea / 2011
Mercy's Kiss
I break beyond me,
I break wide open -
my bloodied, swollen tongue dragging
back roads that lead to dark, damp woods
where the bodies lie dead beneath dirty leaves
their ghosts still begging, bartering for mercy's kiss
- I turn a deaf ear,
I turn a blind eye
I break beyond me,
I break wide open -
my bloodied, swollen tongue dragging
back roads that lead to dark, damp woods
where the bodies lie dead beneath dirty leaves
their ghosts still begging, bartering for mercy's kiss
- I turn a deaf ear,
I turn a blind eye
The Rivers I Have Hidden From The Sea / 2011
A Body of Water Evaporating
... fog emotions;
you cannot see what
I have hidden
between skin and bone,
between blood and the beating
that keeps these feelings
alive and willing
to wander alone
landscapes
I have carved from intuition,
where haze burns slowly off
above a body of water
evaporating...
... fog emotions;
you cannot see what
I have hidden
between skin and bone,
between blood and the beating
that keeps these feelings
alive and willing
to wander alone
landscapes
I have carved from intuition,
where haze burns slowly off
above a body of water
evaporating...
The Rivers I Have Hidden From The Sea / 2011
Reaching For A Heaven We Already Hold In Our Wandering Hearts
A pilgrimage across
strange topography,
unnamed,
uncharted,
unbeknownst
to your bright eyes,
to my curiosity's survey.
Jaguar shadows
follow our bushwhacked,
beaten back, Braille deer paths -
they inform the light breaking above, upon, beyond
the ridge our compass thoughts desire to reach before dusk.
The trees stand with their crucified limbs before us
reaching for a heaven we already hold in our wandering hearts.
A pilgrimage across
strange topography,
unnamed,
uncharted,
unbeknownst
to your bright eyes,
to my curiosity's survey.
Jaguar shadows
follow our bushwhacked,
beaten back, Braille deer paths -
they inform the light breaking above, upon, beyond
the ridge our compass thoughts desire to reach before dusk.
The trees stand with their crucified limbs before us
reaching for a heaven we already hold in our wandering hearts.
The Rivers I Have Hidden From The Sea / 2011
Map The Stars By Counting Birds
map the stars
by counting birds
your night eyes nest
beneath a blanket
the moon lights
the day's last flight
map the stars
by counting birds
your night eyes nest
beneath a blanket
the moon lights
the day's last flight
The Rivers I Have Hidden From The Sea / 2011
Sudden Ridges, Certain Valleys (To Begin Again And Again)
up ahead,
a rest stop,
a scenic overlook,
the sign in a shutter of light
going by at seventy-five miles an hour
says so
we are tired,
light is falling orange
out our back window
and we want only the
absence of color
sleep can bring
but on we go,
miles revealing themselves
in sudden ridges,
certain valleys,
in our desire to get back
to where you and I began,
to begin again and again
up ahead,
a rest stop,
a scenic overlook,
the sign in a shutter of light
going by at seventy-five miles an hour
says so
we are tired,
light is falling orange
out our back window
and we want only the
absence of color
sleep can bring
but on we go,
miles revealing themselves
in sudden ridges,
certain valleys,
in our desire to get back
to where you and I began,
to begin again and again
The Rivers I Have Hidden From The Sea / 2011
Follow The Geography
Mt. Ranier rained fog
on my parade
San Diego blew, blustered,
flustered my best instincts
Pine Ridge poisoned my prairie footsteps
across bad lands bleeding Hepatitis C
Charlotte left lust not lipstick on my collar
as I lay in dawn's gutter
Dallas offered redemption
too wide to embrace for my sling-slung arms
Boston bled me of all my naiveté,
the Charles River flowing between who I was, who I would become
Mt. Ranier rained fog
on my parade
San Diego blew, blustered,
flustered my best instincts
Pine Ridge poisoned my prairie footsteps
across bad lands bleeding Hepatitis C
Charlotte left lust not lipstick on my collar
as I lay in dawn's gutter
Dallas offered redemption
too wide to embrace for my sling-slung arms
Boston bled me of all my naiveté,
the Charles River flowing between who I was, who I would become
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
The Rivers I Have Hidden From The Sea / 2011
An Absolom, Not An Abraham, Am I
Swallowed the endless sands
for a son.
The deserts of my dreams
run wild with the rivers I have waded,
weighted.
Arriving
by surviving
cancerous light
carried from another corner
of a universe unaware
I am holding him up
not in sacrifice,
but in adulation.
An Absolom, not an Abraham,
am I.
Swallowed the endless sands
for a son.
The deserts of my dreams
run wild with the rivers I have waded,
weighted.
Arriving
by surviving
cancerous light
carried from another corner
of a universe unaware
I am holding him up
not in sacrifice,
but in adulation.
An Absolom, not an Abraham,
am I.
The Rivers I Have Hidden From The Sea / 2011
Unmapped
i wander a mirage of geography
ghost cities, phantom landscapes
run my hands through opaque rivers
flush my face in the rouge of urban rust
blacken my palms with the rush of prairie oil
each and every tree a witness to feeling, to thought
boise, bethesda, birmingham
orlando, omaha, oakland
yakima, ypsilianti, yuma
the land runs red beneath my pale skin
the skin turns black beneath a cold sun
lay down with your dead
climb a cloud collapsing
sin can never follow a saint's apparition
walking unmapped in others' memories
i wander a mirage of geography
ghost cities, phantom landscapes
run my hands through opaque rivers
flush my face in the rouge of urban rust
blacken my palms with the rush of prairie oil
each and every tree a witness to feeling, to thought
boise, bethesda, birmingham
orlando, omaha, oakland
yakima, ypsilianti, yuma
the land runs red beneath my pale skin
the skin turns black beneath a cold sun
lay down with your dead
climb a cloud collapsing
sin can never follow a saint's apparition
walking unmapped in others' memories
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
The Rivers I Have Hidden From The Sea / 2011
Faits Accomplis
rock broke away from the coast,
tossed in the teeth of gunmetal waves
- here, then there -
until I lost sight of it
the moment left time behind
and all that remained
was the stone-dead-silence
of billions of years
and their aeonian snapshots
of time at a stand-still
marching me all the same toward death,
with no malice, only another moment
awaiting recognition before it too is lost
to the grey, endless fluidity
of geological time,
nothing more profound in store
for similar, inevitable fates
rock broke away from the coast,
tossed in the teeth of gunmetal waves
- here, then there -
until I lost sight of it
the moment left time behind
and all that remained
was the stone-dead-silence
of billions of years
and their aeonian snapshots
of time at a stand-still
marching me all the same toward death,
with no malice, only another moment
awaiting recognition before it too is lost
to the grey, endless fluidity
of geological time,
nothing more profound in store
for similar, inevitable fates
The Rivers I Have Hidden From The Sea / 2011
As Mutable As
the lake churning outside
below/beyond the bluff,
metaphor stitched surgically
from the inside out
to my internal organs,
where the grind and retreat
of its glacial origins,
the indifference and absoluteness
of its storms,
the vast fog-shrouded infinities
of its horizons,
lie in wait, mimicking movements
of curl, crest, break, collapse
where mood meets emotion
as mutable as quicksilver
framed by panes of glass
the lake churning outside
below/beyond the bluff,
metaphor stitched surgically
from the inside out
to my internal organs,
where the grind and retreat
of its glacial origins,
the indifference and absoluteness
of its storms,
the vast fog-shrouded infinities
of its horizons,
lie in wait, mimicking movements
of curl, crest, break, collapse
where mood meets emotion
as mutable as quicksilver
framed by panes of glass
Monday, May 23, 2011
The Rivers I Have Hidden From The Sea / 2011
The Raw Of The World
Outside a window,
in the raw of the world
The wind,
a rustle of razors
through new leaves
And spring's
warm rain
waiting to explode
in the wake of thunder applause
Beneath
the ionized air
hovering above,
across green grass, more green
in contrast to a proscenium of grey
As a fox plays the silk light
for its better than even odds
against a rabbit no longer able
to outrun its shadow
Outside a window,
in the raw of the world
The wind,
a rustle of razors
through new leaves
And spring's
warm rain
waiting to explode
in the wake of thunder applause
Beneath
the ionized air
hovering above,
across green grass, more green
in contrast to a proscenium of grey
As a fox plays the silk light
for its better than even odds
against a rabbit no longer able
to outrun its shadow
The Rivers I Have Hidden From The Sea / 2011
The Rivers I Have Hidden From The Sea
Night,
don't end.
Don't
leave me
here,
to face the day
alone.
I paint myself,
in varying colors -
scream red
from a lost mother tongue
of my German blood
buried below layers
of liver-spotted skin,
scar tissue,
and choking veins.
I swallow blue,
spit back the salt of oceans
beyond my understanding -
the black of water yielding
only a scribble of stuttering white
to even the fullest moon.
The eyes of my wife
hold more secrets
than all the depths
with their bone armies
at ease,
mute beneath the rhythm
of the waves' unending lament.
She sleeps,
I dream
and try to fathom the rain
outside falling through darkness,
steady and slow,
but enough to fill a heart
by morning, the suffocation of sleep
stealing night again
from my imagination
full with chalk effigies
of puddled moons
and submerged stars.
Clouds come
cover the sun,
dusk waits impatient
at my wet feet
for the deluge of dark
where art is free to follow
the rivers I have hidden from the sea.
Night,
don't end.
Don't
leave me
here,
to face the day
alone.
I paint myself,
in varying colors -
scream red
from a lost mother tongue
of my German blood
buried below layers
of liver-spotted skin,
scar tissue,
and choking veins.
I swallow blue,
spit back the salt of oceans
beyond my understanding -
the black of water yielding
only a scribble of stuttering white
to even the fullest moon.
The eyes of my wife
hold more secrets
than all the depths
with their bone armies
at ease,
mute beneath the rhythm
of the waves' unending lament.
She sleeps,
I dream
and try to fathom the rain
outside falling through darkness,
steady and slow,
but enough to fill a heart
by morning, the suffocation of sleep
stealing night again
from my imagination
full with chalk effigies
of puddled moons
and submerged stars.
Clouds come
cover the sun,
dusk waits impatient
at my wet feet
for the deluge of dark
where art is free to follow
the rivers I have hidden from the sea.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Her Cautious Auburn Beauty / new poems 2011
Beyond Belief
I'm amazed by your love,
a spring in a perennial bloom,
a beauty so beyond belief it begs
the question, "Maybe this is heaven?"
I'm amazed by your love,
a spring in a perennial bloom,
a beauty so beyond belief it begs
the question, "Maybe this is heaven?"
Her Cautious Auburn Beauty / new poems 2011
Buried Our Own
She knows my four brothers,
they have moved in shadow
all of this time we have
danced the sunlight,
moonlight together,
their faces pale
beyond woods
where we
buried
our own
for coyotes,
wild, lost dogs
to scavenge flesh
that looks so familiar
but is only ever skin deep
and devoid of all connection
to a true genealogy of the soul
She knows my four brothers,
they have moved in shadow
all of this time we have
danced the sunlight,
moonlight together,
their faces pale
beyond woods
where we
buried
our own
for coyotes,
wild, lost dogs
to scavenge flesh
that looks so familiar
but is only ever skin deep
and devoid of all connection
to a true genealogy of the soul
Her Cautious Auburn Beauty / new poems 2011
Without Absolutes
The tight knot came undone,
left me without absolutes
to anchor myself upon,
condemned my soul
to a future fully
bound with
failure.
Instead
I stepped
from my shoes,
the deadly weight
of staying stationary,
moved on and well beyond
failure and beside good fortune.
The tight knot came undone,
left me without absolutes
to anchor myself upon,
condemned my soul
to a future fully
bound with
failure.
Instead
I stepped
from my shoes,
the deadly weight
of staying stationary,
moved on and well beyond
failure and beside good fortune.
Her Cautious Auburn Beauty / new poems 2011
Sustenance
I cannot forget
the hunger in my heart,
wanting only to hold your hand
which still satiates me near a decade on.
I cannot forget
the hunger in my heart,
wanting only to hold your hand
which still satiates me near a decade on.
Her Cautious Auburn Beauty / new poems 2011
Birds Gather Stone-Silent
You are beautiful music to me.
I hum you, distractedly during the day.
Birds gather stone-silent at my window in wonder.
The song in my heart twice as sweet as anything they sing.
You are beautiful music to me.
I hum you, distractedly during the day.
Birds gather stone-silent at my window in wonder.
The song in my heart twice as sweet as anything they sing.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Her Cautious Auburn Beauty / new poems 2011
En Far Melankoli
Cold,
Late spring whetted with emotion
My small boy sleeping,
I hide the world for the time being
A lump wells in my throat,
The lies of my own childhood splitting chapped lips
Take me by the collar and pour me out,
The stammer of my recorded voice betrays me
His mother inadvertently shaming saints,
The snow tomorrow patient enough to wait today
I will hold the shadow of his ego in my hands until dawn,
Between beats my heart stops to sob
The hum and only the humming,
Apparitions, folk songs out of thin air
Nordic landscapes linger,
I cannot escape my dead relatives' dreams
The emotion of years hangs frozen,
I walk awake the night alone with the stars
Cover his slight frame with fleece,
May has forgotten her promise
In my mind I wake him,
We will listen together to Schumann before he becomes a man
I cry quietly exhaling condensation,
I too was once this small and smiling, fragile sun
Cold,
Late spring whetted with emotion
My small boy sleeping,
I hide the world for the time being
A lump wells in my throat,
The lies of my own childhood splitting chapped lips
Take me by the collar and pour me out,
The stammer of my recorded voice betrays me
His mother inadvertently shaming saints,
The snow tomorrow patient enough to wait today
I will hold the shadow of his ego in my hands until dawn,
Between beats my heart stops to sob
The hum and only the humming,
Apparitions, folk songs out of thin air
Nordic landscapes linger,
I cannot escape my dead relatives' dreams
The emotion of years hangs frozen,
I walk awake the night alone with the stars
Cover his slight frame with fleece,
May has forgotten her promise
In my mind I wake him,
We will listen together to Schumann before he becomes a man
I cry quietly exhaling condensation,
I too was once this small and smiling, fragile sun
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Her Cautious Auburn Beauty / new poems 2011
Of A Love Like War
You made me march on to the sea,
set ablaze everything that came before,
shoot the starved and sad, skeletal horses
I had ridden half to death searching for you,
made me leave behind a sky surfeit in smolder
of years trapped in the trenches of a love like war.
You made me march on to the sea,
set ablaze everything that came before,
shoot the starved and sad, skeletal horses
I had ridden half to death searching for you,
made me leave behind a sky surfeit in smolder
of years trapped in the trenches of a love like war.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Her Cautious Auburn Beauty / new poems 2011
The River Time We Abide
our faces familiar
but different than before
from the one-another we both knew
the fuzzy-lit dream
of those years ago flickers
faintly, dull across our aging eyes
skipping frames forgot,
swallowed in the rise and rush,
the rhythms of The River Time we abide
echoes of Heraclitus
resound the same in our ears
as they do in canyons still carving
and so we heed his words
though whetted, weighted with regret,
"You cannot step in the same river twice."
(*)
acknowlegement to Bronwen Dickey and her essay, The Last Wild River,
http://bronwendickey.com/writing/the-last-wild-river.php
our faces familiar
but different than before
from the one-another we both knew
the fuzzy-lit dream
of those years ago flickers
faintly, dull across our aging eyes
skipping frames forgot,
swallowed in the rise and rush,
the rhythms of The River Time we abide
echoes of Heraclitus
resound the same in our ears
as they do in canyons still carving
and so we heed his words
though whetted, weighted with regret,
"You cannot step in the same river twice."
(*)
acknowlegement to Bronwen Dickey and her essay, The Last Wild River,
http://bronwendickey.com/writing/the-last-wild-river.php
Her Cautious Auburn Beauty / new poems 2011
A Pilgrim's Sure Progress (Beyond Taut Gospel)
No more cigarettes,
Old, cold beer, unopened
In the big, white refrigerator
All my vices
Put on hold
At present
A Buddhist,
A Puritan,
An Ascetic
I
Am
Not
My past is rife
With a predilection
For impulsive excesses
All of it fogging
My own critical thought
And a pilgrim's sure progress
But there beyond taut Gospel
Still hangs my more colorful self
Hidden between the black of a wardrobe
No more cigarettes,
Old, cold beer, unopened
In the big, white refrigerator
All my vices
Put on hold
At present
A Buddhist,
A Puritan,
An Ascetic
I
Am
Not
My past is rife
With a predilection
For impulsive excesses
All of it fogging
My own critical thought
And a pilgrim's sure progress
But there beyond taut Gospel
Still hangs my more colorful self
Hidden between the black of a wardrobe
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Her Cautious Auburn Beauty / poems 2011
No More Rain
In the aftermath,
a taste of sparkling, pure ozone,
the warm breath of residual sodium chloride
No more rain in our shoes
slowing our advance
A Utah of our own
no longer a mirage
beyond salt roads,
across open water
No more rain in our hearts
submerging our love
In the aftermath,
even our tears taste less alkaline,
the fruits of our labors sweet on our tongues
In the aftermath,
a taste of sparkling, pure ozone,
the warm breath of residual sodium chloride
No more rain in our shoes
slowing our advance
A Utah of our own
no longer a mirage
beyond salt roads,
across open water
No more rain in our hearts
submerging our love
In the aftermath,
even our tears taste less alkaline,
the fruits of our labors sweet on our tongues
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Her Cautious Auburn Beauty / new poems 2011
Hold Me (In Your Burning Arms)
Smoke pouring from our mouths
Exhale, exhausted
Still running a line on fire
Hold me in your burning arms
When day/decade is done
Inhale, exulted
Remembering the hour of immolation
Smoke pouring from our mouths
Exhale, exhausted
Still running a line on fire
Hold me in your burning arms
When day/decade is done
Inhale, exulted
Remembering the hour of immolation
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Her Cautious Auburn Beauty / new poems 2011
Unaware Of The Weather
a decade old photo in a box,
forgotten
the two of us, smiling,
somewhere
warm,
cold,
sunny,
overcast
unaware of the weather
coming our way
carrying
him
brightening every imaginable
meridian
despite
our storms,
locust skies stalking me,
floods sweeping us from our feet
a decade old photo in a box,
forgotten
the two of us, smiling,
somewhere
warm,
cold,
sunny,
overcast
unaware of the weather
coming our way
carrying
him
brightening every imaginable
meridian
despite
our storms,
locust skies stalking me,
floods sweeping us from our feet
Her Cautious Auburn Beauty / new poems 2011
Walking Mists
She is out walking
mists my whetted words
try to follow through a thicket
of razor rain and gale-driven thorn,
a trail left littered with occasional remnants
of love's letters punctured, soaked and bloodied.
She is out walking
mists my whetted words
try to follow through a thicket
of razor rain and gale-driven thorn,
a trail left littered with occasional remnants
of love's letters punctured, soaked and bloodied.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Her Cautious Auburn Beauty / new poems 2011
Wheatstone
milling English
with mortar and pestle
- subtlety slips away on the wind -
grinding lines
of their rough coarse
- distinction falls dusty at my feet -
hewing letters
into oak permanence
- discretion rises to the occasion -
milling English
with mortar and pestle
- subtlety slips away on the wind -
grinding lines
of their rough coarse
- distinction falls dusty at my feet -
hewing letters
into oak permanence
- discretion rises to the occasion -
Her Cautious Auburn Beauty / new poems 2011
Cautious Auburn Beauty
cautious auburn beauty
I know
it's been slow coming
and sleep has slipped
elusive
beyond our own dreams
where we awake to wake
one another
from slumber's insomnia
checking our calendars
carefully
for a decade we deserve
cautious auburn beauty
I know
it's been slow coming
and sleep has slipped
elusive
beyond our own dreams
where we awake to wake
one another
from slumber's insomnia
checking our calendars
carefully
for a decade we deserve
Her Cautious Auburn Beauty / new poems 2011
Wind, Silk, Twig and Wax
Strawberry girl watches
through sinking windows,
her own homemade aviary,
her freckles still evident even
beneath the years of May dew,
cupped and kissed to wash away
sad memories which refuse to pale
or fly away upon wings she fashioned
from stitches of wind, silk, twig and wax.
Strawberry girl watches
through sinking windows,
her own homemade aviary,
her freckles still evident even
beneath the years of May dew,
cupped and kissed to wash away
sad memories which refuse to pale
or fly away upon wings she fashioned
from stitches of wind, silk, twig and wax.
Her Cautious Auburn Beauty / new poems 2011
Jealous Setting Suns, Waning Crescent Moons
Jealous setting suns, waning crescent moons refuse you their light,
the sky dims then darkens daily beyond your luminous face,
leaving a world in stark contrast to contemplate
why I revolve around you alone.
Jealous setting suns, waning crescent moons refuse you their light,
the sky dims then darkens daily beyond your luminous face,
leaving a world in stark contrast to contemplate
why I revolve around you alone.
Her Cautious Auburn Beauty / new poems 2011
Two Rachels
Two Rachels wait,
greet me as I come,
and kiss me as I go,
but I will only ever know
the one who came after
I arrived for the first time
and never really the one
that waited alone for love
all those years before
we found each other
standing in our own
lonely shadows.
Two Rachels wait,
greet me as I come,
and kiss me as I go,
but I will only ever know
the one who came after
I arrived for the first time
and never really the one
that waited alone for love
all those years before
we found each other
standing in our own
lonely shadows.
Her Cautious Auburn Beauty / new poems 2011
She Carries Apples
She carries apples
in the fold of her plain dress,
walks the sheer, windswept bluff
above the beach where water's rhythm
works the same as a memory of those days
that have drown or have leapt to their own death,
gathering sand as they move in, then out of her mind
as she reminds herself of the gravity that has held them here
with a toss across a pale shoulder of first a Gala, then an Empire,
and last a Fortune foretelling the distance between yesterday & tomorrow.
She carries apples
in the fold of her plain dress,
walks the sheer, windswept bluff
above the beach where water's rhythm
works the same as a memory of those days
that have drown or have leapt to their own death,
gathering sand as they move in, then out of her mind
as she reminds herself of the gravity that has held them here
with a toss across a pale shoulder of first a Gala, then an Empire,
and last a Fortune foretelling the distance between yesterday & tomorrow.
Her Cautious Auburn Beauty / new poems 2011
Her Words, Weighted
Her words, weighted with
the death of a father, the longing
for the lapping whose rhythms she rides
upon the sands of sleep and the ephemeral
imprints of paths taken, forgotten, abandoned
despite their disappearance from dream geography
that cannot hope to ever hold the fossil record of a litany
as eponymous and lyrical as her own name's four syllables.
Her words, weighted with
the death of a father, the longing
for the lapping whose rhythms she rides
upon the sands of sleep and the ephemeral
imprints of paths taken, forgotten, abandoned
despite their disappearance from dream geography
that cannot hope to ever hold the fossil record of a litany
as eponymous and lyrical as her own name's four syllables.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
West Of Rome (Alone At Last)
The horizon behind me is ablaze,
the eastern sky gropes its wide line
for a pale sun shrouded somewhere within
the turgid smoke of an unnatural day for night
descending like a final curtain on a love
left charred as I ride out and alone
at last, somewhere west of Rome.
The horizon behind me is ablaze,
the eastern sky gropes its wide line
for a pale sun shrouded somewhere within
the turgid smoke of an unnatural day for night
descending like a final curtain on a love
left charred as I ride out and alone
at last, somewhere west of Rome.
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
To Rain Redemption (for Alan Heathcock)
Along roadsides,
broken down Christs
with Winston cigarettes
dangling from chapped lips,
curse the daylight evaporating
from cumulonimbus tattooed skies
not ready, nor willing to rain redemption.
Along roadsides,
broken down Christs
with Winston cigarettes
dangling from chapped lips,
curse the daylight evaporating
from cumulonimbus tattooed skies
not ready, nor willing to rain redemption.
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Marathon
Stay inside
This old hotel
With dead souls
Counting time to kill
Between a forever's now
And an eternity of idle hours
Stay inside
This old hotel
With dead souls
Counting time to kill
Between a forever's now
And an eternity of idle hours
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
An Architecture
words
hurtling
on the inside,
so I sit transcribing
their frenzied constructions
as they escape my consciousness,
an architecture of the soul rising out of
this new horizon I am feverishly documenting
words
hurtling
on the inside,
so I sit transcribing
their frenzied constructions
as they escape my consciousness,
an architecture of the soul rising out of
this new horizon I am feverishly documenting
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Tenderfoot
April stumbles,
Footing left wanting
Beneath the slip of rain,
Against the gale of wind,
Left tripping towards May
Where spring's tenderfoot
Might finally find a balance
Walking below the sure sun
And between strong blooms.
April stumbles,
Footing left wanting
Beneath the slip of rain,
Against the gale of wind,
Left tripping towards May
Where spring's tenderfoot
Might finally find a balance
Walking below the sure sun
And between strong blooms.
Monday, April 25, 2011
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Stupor Made Sober
whiskey kisses leech my lips
of their stupid grin, again,
my mumble bled pale,
nearly opaque,
my stupor made sober
in contrast to my stumbling
for the right words to offer her
whiskey kisses leech my lips
of their stupid grin, again,
my mumble bled pale,
nearly opaque,
my stupor made sober
in contrast to my stumbling
for the right words to offer her
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Almost-Vespers
She comes, my Shiva,
Hellbent, cold metal teeth
Gnawing on a hospital bed,
Bleeding me with Sex,
Raping me with Death,
Leaving a broken man
Baying like a wolf-boy
Alone in a wilderness
Of shadows and ether,
Gasping for my breath
In the middling distances
Between black and white,
The grey vapor inhalation
Wheezing almost-vespers
She smothers with a kiss.
She comes, my Shiva,
Hellbent, cold metal teeth
Gnawing on a hospital bed,
Bleeding me with Sex,
Raping me with Death,
Leaving a broken man
Baying like a wolf-boy
Alone in a wilderness
Of shadows and ether,
Gasping for my breath
In the middling distances
Between black and white,
The grey vapor inhalation
Wheezing almost-vespers
She smothers with a kiss.
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Antlers (inspired by Tantra Bensko)
Shadowing the past,
Antlers down off a wall
Whispering in a round
The details of an accident
Informing the chalk outline
Of your life, even in death,
Where dreams still reach
And flicker in the half-light
Dawn of fog-drift dirt roads,
Masking the last embers
Of white-hot memories.
Shadowing the past,
Antlers down off a wall
Whispering in a round
The details of an accident
Informing the chalk outline
Of your life, even in death,
Where dreams still reach
And flicker in the half-light
Dawn of fog-drift dirt roads,
Masking the last embers
Of white-hot memories.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Sentiment/Sediment
Sifting oceans
in search of fossils
to inform me,
From where?,
so I might
at least sense some
connection to,
Why am I here?,
before I am
dead and long buried
beneath waves.
Sifting oceans
in search of fossils
to inform me,
From where?,
so I might
at least sense some
connection to,
Why am I here?,
before I am
dead and long buried
beneath waves.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
West of Rome
I set the proud lions upon her and headed dead west,
rode red the faltering sun like a slowly dying steed,
my worn gray shadow elongating out behind me
til dusk called it a day, more like a decade,
and night fell blue beyond its own black,
and quiet, save for the distant sound
of her being torn limb from limb
whispered in my waiting ear
from east over a shoulder
by a witness, the wind
pale beyond white,
feral with a fear
of what I alone
uncaged.
I set the proud lions upon her and headed dead west,
rode red the faltering sun like a slowly dying steed,
my worn gray shadow elongating out behind me
til dusk called it a day, more like a decade,
and night fell blue beyond its own black,
and quiet, save for the distant sound
of her being torn limb from limb
whispered in my waiting ear
from east over a shoulder
by a witness, the wind
pale beyond white,
feral with a fear
of what I alone
uncaged.
Monday, April 18, 2011
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Let It Come, Let It Fall, Let It Land
Let it come,
the birds carry
good news
in their beaks.
Let it fall,
and bring me
new hope
in my hands.
Let it land,
I won't forget
the miles
it has flown.
Let it come,
the birds carry
good news
in their beaks.
Let it fall,
and bring me
new hope
in my hands.
Let it land,
I won't forget
the miles
it has flown.
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Weather Patterns
It snowed the week I met you
in early May, nine years ago,
and so I can't help but notice
the large flakes falling here
in April almost a decade later,
and on the verge of a new start
just as we were in that spring
the season forgot itself as well.
It snowed the week I met you
in early May, nine years ago,
and so I can't help but notice
the large flakes falling here
in April almost a decade later,
and on the verge of a new start
just as we were in that spring
the season forgot itself as well.
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Of Weeds And Rails
Far off train from my childhood carry me back home
to parallel memories of place and possibility,
of destinations still as yet dreamed of,
but somehow sensed well before
they tore up the tracks
all in the name of a
nameless progress
no one remembers now,
lost to wild mint, to mallow,
to common ribwort and chicory,
to tiny yellow blooms of groundsel,
to pricking thistles, the tumble of weeds
azoic along remnants of rusted rails I still walk.
Far off train from my childhood carry me back home
to parallel memories of place and possibility,
of destinations still as yet dreamed of,
but somehow sensed well before
they tore up the tracks
all in the name of a
nameless progress
no one remembers now,
lost to wild mint, to mallow,
to common ribwort and chicory,
to tiny yellow blooms of groundsel,
to pricking thistles, the tumble of weeds
azoic along remnants of rusted rails I still walk.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Spring Pear/Ice Orchards
Spring pear tastes like rain
in a mouth dried by winter's salt
and gelid winds through ice orchards.
Spring pear tastes like rain
in a mouth dried by winter's salt
and gelid winds through ice orchards.
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Coevals (Animal Brain, Human Heart)
My childish thoughts
linger,
of revenge, of envy,
coexist
with the more intellectual
sense of satisfaction,
capacity for forgiveness,
though they wrestle
about the room
knocking over
furniture
of the
soul,
as the animal brain grins
and the human heart frowns,
self-actualization left stranded
somewhere in the wilds between the two,
enduring these coevals
on its slow ascent
to higher ground.
My childish thoughts
linger,
of revenge, of envy,
coexist
with the more intellectual
sense of satisfaction,
capacity for forgiveness,
though they wrestle
about the room
knocking over
furniture
of the
soul,
as the animal brain grins
and the human heart frowns,
self-actualization left stranded
somewhere in the wilds between the two,
enduring these coevals
on its slow ascent
to higher ground.
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
At The Hip
It still walks along right behind me,
even when I stop, blow my nose, count stars,
spit, piss, pin the words in my head to the ground,
do the math, puzzle at the raw beauty of another sunset,
think about the shit you have to keep from saying every day
to people half as smart, half as aware, half as alive - so, instead
I tell my shadow, "Go fuck yourself," knowing it could really give a damn.
It still walks along right behind me,
even when I stop, blow my nose, count stars,
spit, piss, pin the words in my head to the ground,
do the math, puzzle at the raw beauty of another sunset,
think about the shit you have to keep from saying every day
to people half as smart, half as aware, half as alive - so, instead
I tell my shadow, "Go fuck yourself," knowing it could really give a damn.
Friday, April 15, 2011
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Our Penny-Wise Shadows
With uncertain economy,
"Forward ho," and we're off again,
leaving only our footsteps as artifacts
for those who still track us, to marvel at
well after we have followed a series of new suns
so familiar, we no longer cast our penny-wise shadows.
With uncertain economy,
"Forward ho," and we're off again,
leaving only our footsteps as artifacts
for those who still track us, to marvel at
well after we have followed a series of new suns
so familiar, we no longer cast our penny-wise shadows.
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
A Failed Conspiracy
all the strange summers we have
hovered above
speaking in tongues
our pollen manifestos
of better days,
stuck in the limbs of
fragile locusts
and
beautiful hawthorns
along with
white plastic bags,
sad with weeks
of spring rain and wind
and left sagging
in a failed conspiracy
by the time autumn
brings leaves and dreams
back to earth
all the strange summers we have
hovered above
speaking in tongues
our pollen manifestos
of better days,
stuck in the limbs of
fragile locusts
and
beautiful hawthorns
along with
white plastic bags,
sad with weeks
of spring rain and wind
and left sagging
in a failed conspiracy
by the time autumn
brings leaves and dreams
back to earth
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Demon Pockets
fingers into snakes
not foraging, but
moving in magic
unseen constriction
like these hells I hide
of what wasn't Eden
fingers into snakes
not foraging, but
moving in magic
unseen constriction
like these hells I hide
of what wasn't Eden
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
I Desire I
everybody is running through the streets
naked and on fire,
chasing dreams they themselves drowned,
looking at their hands shaking
with an epilepsy
that comes from always wanting
where as i desire i and sit in the quiet
of rain and fog
waiting patiently to soak again in the sun
everybody is running through the streets
naked and on fire,
chasing dreams they themselves drowned,
looking at their hands shaking
with an epilepsy
that comes from always wanting
where as i desire i and sit in the quiet
of rain and fog
waiting patiently to soak again in the sun
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
On The Other End Of Eight (reprise)
Here at peace at last on the other end of eight years gone
I cannot reconcile the sullen, scarred face I once wore,
slashed beyond recognition by the absence of love,
a mad vacuum where hope sleeps alone and prays
for scar tissue to come and kiss away a pain
only three thousand setting suns can heal.
Here at peace at last on the other end of eight years gone
I cannot reconcile the sullen, scarred face I once wore,
slashed beyond recognition by the absence of love,
a mad vacuum where hope sleeps alone and prays
for scar tissue to come and kiss away a pain
only three thousand setting suns can heal.
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
At My Feet At Last
All the predators -
vultures
without talons,
wolves
without claws,
sharks
without teeth,
- at my feet at last
All the predators -
vultures
without talons,
wolves
without claws,
sharks
without teeth,
- at my feet at last
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
Without A Map
The hard road well behind now, the fork where fortune led us together
swallowed
by a horizon left holding the hindsight of our blind faith in one another.
The hard road well behind now, the fork where fortune led us together
swallowed
by a horizon left holding the hindsight of our blind faith in one another.
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
A Halo Spun
The rhythm of Heaven
found in the curl and tumble
of his soft, auburn-brushed hair,
a halo spun by a mother for an only son.
The rhythm of Heaven
found in the curl and tumble
of his soft, auburn-brushed hair,
a halo spun by a mother for an only son.
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
Un Gioco Al Massacro
In between
nothing but blood
Blotting out the pastel chalk
of eviscerated summers we lost
And the distant, strained remains
of what once was children's laughter
Forgotten in a wind of selfish wants
and a war of words waged long between
Butchers pale at either end of their regret
where the rain falls red but washes away no sin
In between
nothing but blood
Blotting out the pastel chalk
of eviscerated summers we lost
And the distant, strained remains
of what once was children's laughter
Forgotten in a wind of selfish wants
and a war of words waged long between
Butchers pale at either end of their regret
where the rain falls red but washes away no sin
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
Color Wheel Collapsing (for Rachel)
She stood there transfixed by the droning, ephemeral,
color wheel collapsing sunset beyond the pane
colliding against perspective - the horizon -
her hands outstretched, overhead
into the abstract arc of a diver,
toes curled with force,
poised to plunge
out a window
and into
herself
She stood there transfixed by the droning, ephemeral,
color wheel collapsing sunset beyond the pane
colliding against perspective - the horizon -
her hands outstretched, overhead
into the abstract arc of a diver,
toes curled with force,
poised to plunge
out a window
and into
herself
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
In The Cloud-Like Impermanence Of My Mortal Poetics
stutter -
we can never say everything that need be said
shutter -
we can never capture everything that need be seen
incomplete/imperfect/impermanent/
as the subtraction adds up to less than we expect
and so I stammer to capture the word, the wind
with less than perfect diction
and so I clamber to catalog the wild, the world
with less than complete collocation
as I shudder in the length of my receding shadow,
in the cloud-like impermanence of my mortal poetics,
realizing within the word, the wind, the wild, the world
that it is easier to conceive of the infinite, than the finite
stutter -
we can never say everything that need be said
shutter -
we can never capture everything that need be seen
incomplete/imperfect/impermanent/
as the subtraction adds up to less than we expect
and so I stammer to capture the word, the wind
with less than perfect diction
and so I clamber to catalog the wild, the world
with less than complete collocation
as I shudder in the length of my receding shadow,
in the cloud-like impermanence of my mortal poetics,
realizing within the word, the wind, the wild, the world
that it is easier to conceive of the infinite, than the finite
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
The Windpipe Crushed
Hanging,
feet swinging freely
from contentment/
Suffocation
with a smile/
Asphyxiation without awareness
of the rope slipped 'round
a willing neck/
The windpipe crushed
never knowing why
Hanging,
feet swinging freely
from contentment/
Suffocation
with a smile/
Asphyxiation without awareness
of the rope slipped 'round
a willing neck/
The windpipe crushed
never knowing why
Monday, April 11, 2011
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
Masafuera: Farther Away
At 38 I let go,
allowed myself to drift away
from comforting familiar reflections
in a shark infested, increasingly murky sea.
After almost a decade adrift
I have at last spied a shoreline,
a rocky outcrop, a Crusoe sanctuary
where I am hidden from all whom dared try follow.
And I am farther away as well
from the desperate impression of a life,
a landmass of secure, safe, but sullen connection,
an impermanent Pangaea of shifting, separating emotions.
At 38 I let go,
allowed myself to drift away
from comforting familiar reflections
in a shark infested, increasingly murky sea.
After almost a decade adrift
I have at last spied a shoreline,
a rocky outcrop, a Crusoe sanctuary
where I am hidden from all whom dared try follow.
And I am farther away as well
from the desperate impression of a life,
a landmass of secure, safe, but sullen connection,
an impermanent Pangaea of shifting, separating emotions.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
As I Hold Water Moccasins In My Aging Hands (for Jim Harrison)
The shape of the journey:
irregular, irreversible - a river
flooding its banks to swallow
old LPs, rusted shed tools,
and, the love of a woman
now wearing another face
as I hold water moccasins
in my aging hands
and piece together my youth
from Polaroids, vague memories
of a trip to Syracuse and
the smell of smoke coming from
a neighbor's burn barrel
on summer nights four decades gone -
there where I was no more than a shadow
in a hooded sweatshirt chasing fireflies,
still unaware
of the speed of light,
of the number of feet in a mile,
of Newton's fortuitous falling apple -
that even gravity cannot hold us
to this world forever.
The shape of the journey:
irregular, irreversible - a river
flooding its banks to swallow
old LPs, rusted shed tools,
and, the love of a woman
now wearing another face
as I hold water moccasins
in my aging hands
and piece together my youth
from Polaroids, vague memories
of a trip to Syracuse and
the smell of smoke coming from
a neighbor's burn barrel
on summer nights four decades gone -
there where I was no more than a shadow
in a hooded sweatshirt chasing fireflies,
still unaware
of the speed of light,
of the number of feet in a mile,
of Newton's fortuitous falling apple -
that even gravity cannot hold us
to this world forever.
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
Gold In The Shadow
mining memory
for gold in the shadow
your diamond smile found
in between the soft folds
and hemispheres of forgot
memory, mine,
a shadow caching gold
mining memory
for gold in the shadow
your diamond smile found
in between the soft folds
and hemispheres of forgot
memory, mine,
a shadow caching gold
Friday, April 8, 2011
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
Playing The Wrong Piano
Playing the
wrong piano/
Transposing crooked notes
left by Cubist lovers/
Floating overhead in pale gray rooms
of their own construction/
Alight with atonal words on fire
smoldering as I smoke backwards/
Exhaling John Cage cancer
and imperfect rings of emphysema/
Wheezing a broken, blackened melody
I cannot breathe/
Sitting here beneath the arbitrary rhythm
of a strangled symphony/
Above a tuck of tails trailing
an exit face flashing before ivories combust/
Knowing I can always just
hum myself to sleep
Playing the
wrong piano/
Transposing crooked notes
left by Cubist lovers/
Floating overhead in pale gray rooms
of their own construction/
Alight with atonal words on fire
smoldering as I smoke backwards/
Exhaling John Cage cancer
and imperfect rings of emphysema/
Wheezing a broken, blackened melody
I cannot breathe/
Sitting here beneath the arbitrary rhythm
of a strangled symphony/
Above a tuck of tails trailing
an exit face flashing before ivories combust/
Knowing I can always just
hum myself to sleep
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
Donnée
In blue,
or rather,
annotated,
likewise
though,
from the heart,
such as
a novel idea
set in stone,
eventually
worn away,
discolored.
In blue,
or rather,
annotated,
likewise
though,
from the heart,
such as
a novel idea
set in stone,
eventually
worn away,
discolored.
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
Dyed In The Wool
Between the two of us, a gentle boy,
a soft amalgam with curls shorn to expose
a subtle coat of arms, beneath which he will be me
and he will be you, the two of us, long after we are gone.
Between the two of us, a gentle boy,
a soft amalgam with curls shorn to expose
a subtle coat of arms, beneath which he will be me
and he will be you, the two of us, long after we are gone.
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
Beyond The Great Curve
This light, bending, passing through me and on its way
to touch the rings of Saturn, to illuminate the edges
beyond the great curve where souls wait in silence
listening closely for the shadow I have added
to the glow that was here, then gone.
This light, bending, passing through me and on its way
to touch the rings of Saturn, to illuminate the edges
beyond the great curve where souls wait in silence
listening closely for the shadow I have added
to the glow that was here, then gone.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
Pagan Eves
Within me, ribs
caged
wanting release
and so with the remainder
of my broken teeth, I tear,
I break them loose
with the chew of sinew,
the shark bite of cartilage,
the mastication of marrow
choking my
own muffled howl
stifled by
bitten, bloody lips
carrying a kiss
for all the pagan
Eves I will fashion.
Within me, ribs
caged
wanting release
and so with the remainder
of my broken teeth, I tear,
I break them loose
with the chew of sinew,
the shark bite of cartilage,
the mastication of marrow
choking my
own muffled howl
stifled by
bitten, bloody lips
carrying a kiss
for all the pagan
Eves I will fashion.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
Kafka Crawls, Nabokov Abandons, Jesus Doubts
At last
becoming
what I became.
A transfiguration so utterly, absolutely and plenarily complete
that Kafka crawls away, shaking his bug head in disbelief,
Nabokov abandons his lepidopterist's eye for butterflies,
and Jesus doubts, sticking his fingers into my side.
At last
becoming
what I became.
A transfiguration so utterly, absolutely and plenarily complete
that Kafka crawls away, shaking his bug head in disbelief,
Nabokov abandons his lepidopterist's eye for butterflies,
and Jesus doubts, sticking his fingers into my side.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
The Leaving
Red skin remembers
the summer of disassembling,
the stifling choke of a throat,
constricted and conflicted,
swallowing haunted shadows
with voices like ghosts fading
before they were ever even familiar.
Black heart scrapbooks
seasons of dead leaves,
set ablaze and asunder,
smoke billowing from a soul,
full of smoldering paper tigers,
and notes to self aflame and fanning
the conflagration of love's lost letters.
Pink hands forgive
the premature palsy of fingers
wilted into the permanence of fists,
to beat against walls now erected
until they become a pulp fiction
rewriting in the sanguine of blood cells
an empty book of days not to be.
Yellow eyes reflect
the time lost in the flickering light
of memories fading from senses,
taste, smell, sound, touch, and sight
conjuring the last artists' renderings,
becoming a charcoal of trembling
shuddering to think of itself.
Grey matter forgets
even the chalk outlines of children
stoic beneath a crayon sun,
running scared with the sudden rain,
a flood of confusion confiscating
even the best of memories,
drowning them beneath a childish dream.
Blue lips recall
the leaving, long left behind
along with the shiver of "is"
before it ever longed to be
the lingering, warm reverie,
the soft, supple nostalgia of "was,"
left instead this cold comfort to kiss.
Red skin remembers
the summer of disassembling,
the stifling choke of a throat,
constricted and conflicted,
swallowing haunted shadows
with voices like ghosts fading
before they were ever even familiar.
Black heart scrapbooks
seasons of dead leaves,
set ablaze and asunder,
smoke billowing from a soul,
full of smoldering paper tigers,
and notes to self aflame and fanning
the conflagration of love's lost letters.
Pink hands forgive
the premature palsy of fingers
wilted into the permanence of fists,
to beat against walls now erected
until they become a pulp fiction
rewriting in the sanguine of blood cells
an empty book of days not to be.
Yellow eyes reflect
the time lost in the flickering light
of memories fading from senses,
taste, smell, sound, touch, and sight
conjuring the last artists' renderings,
becoming a charcoal of trembling
shuddering to think of itself.
Grey matter forgets
even the chalk outlines of children
stoic beneath a crayon sun,
running scared with the sudden rain,
a flood of confusion confiscating
even the best of memories,
drowning them beneath a childish dream.
Blue lips recall
the leaving, long left behind
along with the shiver of "is"
before it ever longed to be
the lingering, warm reverie,
the soft, supple nostalgia of "was,"
left instead this cold comfort to kiss.
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
On The Other End Of Eight
Having now outrun it all
I leave a small infinity behind me
Where I was who I was
for what seemed forever
Until I found myself standing here
on the other end of eight
Having now outrun it all
I leave a small infinity behind me
Where I was who I was
for what seemed forever
Until I found myself standing here
on the other end of eight
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
In And Out Of Time With Broken Bells
Heart soars
against arrhythmia,
beats crookedly beneath
a cathedral of towering clouds
in and out of time with broken bells.
Heart soars
against arrhythmia,
beats crookedly beneath
a cathedral of towering clouds
in and out of time with broken bells.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
The Diaphanous Library / new poems 2011
From Winter's Womb
Hinted at,
just a dream
here as spring lifts
her heavy-lidded eyes,
whispering a pale warmth
through long shuttered windows
and the unspoken promise of another.
Hinted at,
just a dream
here as spring lifts
her heavy-lidded eyes,
whispering a pale warmth
through long shuttered windows
and the unspoken promise of another.
The Diaphanous Library / new poems 2011
Without Smoke For Hands, Without Alcohol For Eyes
All winter long I have hidden myself inside the stacks
without smoke for hands and without alcohol for eyes,
dreaming of sand, the bright sun an x-ray of revelation,
writing summers Chekhov, Platonov and Solzhenitsyn
could only ever have imagined in their cold imaginations.
All winter long I have hidden myself inside the stacks
without smoke for hands and without alcohol for eyes,
dreaming of sand, the bright sun an x-ray of revelation,
writing summers Chekhov, Platonov and Solzhenitsyn
could only ever have imagined in their cold imaginations.
The Diaphanous Library / new poems 2011
Shadows Beyond Birds
shadows beyond birds themselves
racing sun, surfing wind, climbing sky,
the heat of the day crawling from the frost
left behind for night to find when wings sleep
shadows beyond birds themselves
racing sun, surfing wind, climbing sky,
the heat of the day crawling from the frost
left behind for night to find when wings sleep
The Diaphanous Library / new poems 2011
Pencil Method
I was dreaming of a typewriter's tap, tap, tap,
realizing the rhythm of all writing was inextricable
from its form, its function, when my cloud eyes drifted
to muslin visions of Herr Walser's ponderous, pencil method,
inert in its torpid execution, but capturing every shuffled step,
each long look, along a walk across a timeless Swiss landscape,
the languorous beating of all the hearts no longer capable of hope.
I was dreaming of a typewriter's tap, tap, tap,
realizing the rhythm of all writing was inextricable
from its form, its function, when my cloud eyes drifted
to muslin visions of Herr Walser's ponderous, pencil method,
inert in its torpid execution, but capturing every shuffled step,
each long look, along a walk across a timeless Swiss landscape,
the languorous beating of all the hearts no longer capable of hope.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
The Diaphanous Library / new poems 2011
A Little Ramble (for D.E.G.)
Will I look for you
when you are gone
inside the hush where words
are wed quietly to one another,
in the sound of my own cough
becoming not unlike your own,
between the geological syncline
strata of a road cut chronology,
through windows bathed in sun
warming bones, aging pale skin,
behind the cold, low Nordic hum
of Jean Sibelius' slow 'Finlandia,'
along an endless wave of Durum wheat
rolling out below a wide, wild Dakota sky,
somewhere beyond a shadow of a doubt cast
upon my heart that you are there, somewhere.
Will I look for you
when you are gone
inside the hush where words
are wed quietly to one another,
in the sound of my own cough
becoming not unlike your own,
between the geological syncline
strata of a road cut chronology,
through windows bathed in sun
warming bones, aging pale skin,
behind the cold, low Nordic hum
of Jean Sibelius' slow 'Finlandia,'
along an endless wave of Durum wheat
rolling out below a wide, wild Dakota sky,
somewhere beyond a shadow of a doubt cast
upon my heart that you are there, somewhere.
The Diaphanous Library / new poems 2011
I've Been High
everything is on fire
low lapping wolves
at wooden
doors
winter has turned strange
and in the quiet sits fear,
trembling blue
but I've been high,
stood on the roof of this world,
looked down at what looks like
make believe
cried to the heavens,
cursed at the stars
the ravaged, stoic moon
over both shoulders
with its eternity of travails
left unspoken
speaking volumes,
shining soft white, silver light
upon the inevitable coming calm
and its ladder back through clouds
i climb down, descending, determined
to wade the boiling, roiling waters,
walk the blackened, broken land
and though
the wolves still bay
off in the distance,
fear somehow stands,
its pale face transformed
by soot and sorrow,
and walks on into a night
still ablaze, shoulders broad
and parting a sea of smoke
and uncertainty, unafraid at last
everything is on fire
low lapping wolves
at wooden
doors
winter has turned strange
and in the quiet sits fear,
trembling blue
but I've been high,
stood on the roof of this world,
looked down at what looks like
make believe
cried to the heavens,
cursed at the stars
the ravaged, stoic moon
over both shoulders
with its eternity of travails
left unspoken
speaking volumes,
shining soft white, silver light
upon the inevitable coming calm
and its ladder back through clouds
i climb down, descending, determined
to wade the boiling, roiling waters,
walk the blackened, broken land
and though
the wolves still bay
off in the distance,
fear somehow stands,
its pale face transformed
by soot and sorrow,
and walks on into a night
still ablaze, shoulders broad
and parting a sea of smoke
and uncertainty, unafraid at last
The Diaphanous Library / new poems 2011
They Assassinate Themselves
They assassinate themselves, or so it seems from this distance,
this balloon ride above a circus, shuttered tight beneath a tent,
where I see the land suffering, silently as a million thousands
bloom silently in rapacious colors, and wilt before a pair of eyes
has inhaled their essence, as painters and poets once sought
to secret away to canvas, parchment, and so, preservation,
flying in the face of, oh the, humanity, of spirits barely breathing
as they wander en masse their air-conditioned convictions
chasing spurious visions of futures weighted down by days
teeming with dreams of the dull, cold calculus of commerce,
all the while, lost in visions of excess, assassinating themselves,
though I am witness from afar, lost in thought above an open field
where poetry and painting place pen and brush, in place of a gun.
They assassinate themselves, or so it seems from this distance,
this balloon ride above a circus, shuttered tight beneath a tent,
where I see the land suffering, silently as a million thousands
bloom silently in rapacious colors, and wilt before a pair of eyes
has inhaled their essence, as painters and poets once sought
to secret away to canvas, parchment, and so, preservation,
flying in the face of, oh the, humanity, of spirits barely breathing
as they wander en masse their air-conditioned convictions
chasing spurious visions of futures weighted down by days
teeming with dreams of the dull, cold calculus of commerce,
all the while, lost in visions of excess, assassinating themselves,
though I am witness from afar, lost in thought above an open field
where poetry and painting place pen and brush, in place of a gun.
The Diaphanous Library / new poems 2011
Speaking to The Rose
Walk along with me, carry your little boy feet
over rock-scattered trails where I have stumbled
and know me as I really am; there in my followed
footsteps you may in fact find your gray father
speaking to the stars, the dead and the rose.
Walk along with me, carry your little boy feet
over rock-scattered trails where I have stumbled
and know me as I really am; there in my followed
footsteps you may in fact find your gray father
speaking to the stars, the dead and the rose.
The Diaphanous Library / new poems 2011
Omphaloskeptic
I have watched you now for near on five decades,
a depressed Aphrodite gorging yourself upon lotus
blooming with self-pity, the landscape surrounding you
left a solipsistic wasteland even T.S. cannot comprehend
I have watched you now for near on five decades,
a depressed Aphrodite gorging yourself upon lotus
blooming with self-pity, the landscape surrounding you
left a solipsistic wasteland even T.S. cannot comprehend
Friday, March 18, 2011
The Diaphanous Library / new poems 2011
Collections Of Nothing
will all manner of things,
our collections of nothing,
keep death from the door
or do ravens
rest upon everything
arms cannot hold
at all, all at
once
their yellow eyes,
as a friend reminded,
distant, distracted
unimpressed
by the trappings
beneath talons
predisposed toward,
yet cynical of
even
their own survival
remembering Poe,
alone and dying,
with only
a pen, a needle, a tale
talismans one and all,
attached to meaning
someone else
will attach
after death
empties our hands
and folds them
in a final prayer
will all manner of things,
our collections of nothing,
keep death from the door
or do ravens
rest upon everything
arms cannot hold
at all, all at
once
their yellow eyes,
as a friend reminded,
distant, distracted
unimpressed
by the trappings
beneath talons
predisposed toward,
yet cynical of
even
their own survival
remembering Poe,
alone and dying,
with only
a pen, a needle, a tale
talismans one and all,
attached to meaning
someone else
will attach
after death
empties our hands
and folds them
in a final prayer
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